The Lives I Have Taken
by Ericka Jane
Summary: What would Dean do if humans came after Sam and Sam didn't make it out? Would he carry out revenge like the Winchesters are famous for? Or would he break the cycle? NOT a real death!fic. Spoilers up to 5.04
1. Too Late

A/N: I was doing my usual psychoanalysis of Dean and got to wondering if he would really be able to kill another human being out of revenge or rage. I know he killed someone in 'Family Matters,' but that was different because his life was threatened. I'm thinking more along the lines of if a human killed Sam, would Dean kill them out of vengeance? He threatened to do so in 'The Benders,' but after everything that's happened and everything that he's done in hell, would he be able to do it? Or would he even want to? I think so.

To be safe, I 'm going to say there are **spoilers** for episodes 5.01 – 5.04. **Warnings** for: language, violence, angst, some temporary insanity on Dean's part, and temporary character death. Let me say that again, _temporary_ character death.

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**The Lives I Have Taken**

_"For you or Dad, the things I'm willing to do or kill, it scares me sometimes."_

_- Dean_

Zachariah is a dead angel walking as far as Dean is concerned. Seriously, he just convinced Cas to stop hauling him around via teleportation. Good ole' Zack not only screws that up royally, but he also throws Dean five years into a very messed up future (a future that is never going to happen if Dean has anything to say about it.)

"Pretty nice timing, Cas," Dean says with evident relief after he realizes that he's been snatched from his motel room, in a good way this time.

"Dean…"

"No, really, Zachariah was two seconds away from laying some more mojo on me," Dean continues with a hand on his stomach and an uncomfortable look on his face.

"Dean, listen," Castiel persists.

Dean pauses, taking a second to really look at the angel. Castiel looks grave, nervous, and disturbingly sympathetic. It immediately puts Dean on edge.

"What? What is it?" Dean asks, his eyes doing a couple sweeps over Castiel as he tries to place the source of his upset.

"It's your brother."

Dean freezes and his heart stutters, pauses, and then drops to his stomach like a stone, "What about him?"

Castiel shakes his head and then looks away, as if he's trying to find the words, "Something's happened…"

"Yeah, I'm getting that. Would you mind not beating around the damn bush and telling me what exactly?" Dean demands as his growing panic takes over his words.

Cas turns his near glowing blue eyes back to Dean and suddenly, he knows, before the words even leave Castiel's mouth, "Sam's dead."

Dean feels like he's caught in the shock wave of a sonic boom. Something invisible hits his chest with enough force to take his breath away, his lungs compact and breathing becomes impossible, and the ground practically falls out from under him. Sam can't be dead. Dean just talked to him an hour ago and he was fine. Or at least, physically he was fine, mentally was a completely different matter. But he was _alive_.

"You're wrong," Dean finally says, his voice unsteady, "I just talked to the kid, Sam's fine."

"I'm sorry…"

"There's nothing to be sorry about because my brother is fine!" Dean shouts. His face is tight with rage fueled by denial, but underneath the anger, Dean's teetering on the edge of despair.

Sam has to be fine. Dean still needs to tell him that he's sorry and that they need to hunt together, again. He has to tell him about the future and how utterly messed up it is, and how it's not going to be a problem because they're sticking together. Sam has to be fine.

Dean whips out his cell phone and hits the first speed dial, waiting as the phone rings for an impossibly long time, "Come on, come on, Sam."

Sam's voicemail echoes through the speakers and Dean's eyes close tightly, willing himself to not believe it. He would know if Sam was dead. He would feel it, right down to his bones and in his blood, like an electric shock. Except, would he really? With the bond between them growing thinner with every meal spent in silence, every problem left untouched, and every hurt feeling left raw and painful? Would he really know any more if his brother was dead?

Desperately, Dean pushes the speed dial again, praying that Sam is just sleeping or showering, or simply ignoring his ass of a big brother because he hurt Sam's feelings. The ringing cuts off and the voicemail returns, Sam's words sounding through the phone like a memory. Suddenly, Dean can't breathe, because this can't be happening.

"Take me to him," Dean whispers as he swallows convulsively.

"I don't think that's wise…"

Dean's hands are fisted in Castiel's trench coat faster than the angel thought was humanly possible. Dean's green eyes are narrowed and blurred with tears that haven't fallen yet, but they hold a spark in them that Castiel hasn't seen since he pulled Dean Winchester from hell. It makes his stomach coil in an unusual way, something that might be weariness or fear.

"Take me to him or tell me where he is. Now," Dean snarls, his voice a stark contrast to the single soft tear that's finally fallen and is now rolling down the planes of his face.

"If that is what you want," Castiel replies, knowing in his gut that this is a bad idea but also knowing that one way or another, this can't be avoided.

Dean barely notices when the scenery blurs and switches faster than a snap of the fingers. His gaze is solely fixed on the heart shattering, stomach churning scene presented in front of him. From what he can tell, they're in some abandoned warehouse. The high ceilings are lined with blocky horizontal beams, the walls are slate gray, and the ground is cold concrete. There isn't much left in the place: a huge pile of cardboard boxes, five steel tables, machinery covered in dust and cobwebs, a broken conveyer belt, and a door lying on the ground.

And there's Sam.

Dean takes a small step forward as if his feet are unsure if they want to run to his sibling, or run as far away from this place as possible and deny that this is happening.

"Oh God, Sammy," Dean breathes as his feet finally decide what they want to do.

He shuffles forward, a hand over his mouth as his eyes stay trained on his brother.

The rope around Sam's neck is long; the end of it curls on the floor even though it's dangling from a beam at least thirty feet in the air, not counting the other seven that's sustaining Sam's weight.

Hung. Someone had hung his baby brother.

The vomit that comes up and threatens to choke him doesn't really surprise him, but Castiel's heavy hand on his shoulder does. He's shaking as he spits the remaining residue from his mouth and tears are burning their way down his face, both from puking and from the soul squeezing grief that has a hold of him. Dean lets out a shuddering breath, trying to regain the courage to look at Sam again, to do what he needs to do.

"Are you alright?" Castiel asks, his hand still placed firmly on Dean's shoulder.

The shuddering half sob, half cough that ricochets under Castiel's hand is answer enough, a firm no way in hell.

"Help," Dean starts and then coughs as tears cloud his throat, "Help me get him down."

Dean stands under Sam, unable to look away even though he desperately wants to. Castiel is on the other side of the rope, the end that's wrapped around a jagged pipe that's sticking out of the wall. It's what's holding Sam up. Dean guesses that someone held the rope when the deed was actually being done and then they tied it off before they left, so that Sam stayed swinging from the beam instead of falling to a heap on the floor. It was an act of sheer violence, a message, a punishment. It simultaneously makes Dean's blood boil and heart break, and he promises himself right then and there that whatever did this is going to pay with blood…with their lives, be it supernatural or not.

Castiel slowly and gently releases the rope from the pipe and starts lowering Sam down to where Dean's waiting below. Dean's hands grip Sam's jacket tightly, as the slack of the rope gives away, leaving Dean to take all of his brother's weight. Dean grits his teeth and slowly lowers Sam so that he's lying on the ground. When it's done, Dean takes a second to just breathe. He closes his eyes, wondering how he's going to get through the next minute, the next hour, the next _everything_, because he can't make another deal, can't pull any favors and can't turn back time. Sam's dead and this time, there's nothing he can do to save him.

Dean squeezes his eyes shut tighter as more tears leak from under his eyelids. When he opens them again, he sinks to the ground next to his brother. Dean steels himself and makes himself look at Sam, really look at him. Sam couldn't have been dead long because his skin is just on this side of cold. If Dean concentrates long enough, he can still feel some warmth in Sammy's cheek.

Whoever killed his brother really worked him over first. He suspects that Sam's cheekbone is shattered by the coloring of his skin, there's dried blood under his nose, and his lip is split in two places. Carefully, Dean lifts Sam's shirt to look fore more injuries and then sucks in a breath. Sam's torso is covered in bruises, colors ranging from blue to purple to black. That's not even the worst of it. There are five cuts decorating Sam's chest, all of them ranging in depth, with what looks like salt clinging to the edges of the wounds, almost like…like Sam was being tested.

That's when it all clicks together, like a puzzle. Other hunters, it had to be.

He looks his brother over again from head to toe. The evidence is all there. The closer Dean looks the more he can see the drying holy water on Sam's clothes and he'd bet another ten years in hell that the cuts on Sam's body were made with a silver knife.

"Sonuvabitch," Dean grits as his hand tightens in Sam's tee-shirt.

Slowly, he unclenches his hand and smoothes Sam's shirt back down, trying to smooth his anger along with it. There'd be time for rage later. Right now he has to do what he failed to do so horribly: take care of his brother.

His hands are shaking as he moves to grasp behind his brother's neck to feel the knot in the rope. He carefully shifts the rope around Sam's neck so that he can untie the knot. The logical thing would be to cut it free but the idea of putting a knife near Sam right now is enough to make him want to vomit again. So he works methodically to get the rope off manually and somehow, it makes him feel like he's doing it right. When the rope finally gives and slips free, Dean lifts Sam's head up, cradling it gently and pulls it free. He throws it as far away from him as possible and makes a silent vow to burn it later.

Suddenly, Dean's unsure of what to do. He's taken back to Cold Oak when he spent the better part of three days staring at Sam's body as it slowly wasted away. Nothing could tear him away from Sam then. Not Bobby, not the Yellow Eyed Demon who was still running rampage, nothing. Dean doesn't know if the apocalypse is enough to take him from his brother but he does know what is: revenge.

It's the Winchester circle of life: death, impenetrable grief, deals, revenge. In that order, over and over again. Dean's breaking the cycle this time, skipping over the deal part and driving straight into revenge, full speed ahead. After that? He's tempted to let the world burn. Except…that's not what Sam would want. That's not what Sam died for.

Dean shakes his head and scrubs a hand over his face, wiping away tears that are just going to fall again.

He reaches out and moves some of the pieces of hair that are covering Sam's forehead. Dean smiles slightly, even though it's more sad than anything, "Girly hair."

His hand moves down and his thumb gently rubs Sam's cheek bone, and Dean swallows as he feels the coldness there.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean whispers, his breath catching on more tears, "I'm so damned sorry."

_Sorry for pushing you away, for not getting here sooner, for letting you walk away in the first place, for letting you die._

Then, the most terrifying thought hits Dean and he's suddenly finding it hard to take in air, "Cas? Is he…is Sam in hell?"

Castiel is silent for a moment too long before he answers, "I don't know."

Dean's eyes squeeze shut as a sob wracks through him, because he knows. There's no way that Sam avoided being sent down stairs. There was no way that Sam isn't burning. His stomach clenches as he thinks about Sam suffering like he had suffered, and he barely keeps himself from passing out.

When the feeling passes he leans over and presses his forehead against Sam's, remembering the hundreds of times he did it as a kid and was trying to comfort his younger brother, "I'm going to find them, Sammy. I'm going to fix this."

He stays that way for a moment, hunched over and leaning against Sam as he tries to take some small comfort from his brother.

He lets out a shuddering breath as a new determination sets within him, "Help me move him, Cas."

Castiel might have hesitated, Dean's not sure because he didn't look, but eventually Castiel walks over.

"Where are you moving him?"

"On to one of the tables. I don't…I can't burn him yet, but there's no where else - I just can't leave him on the floor," Dean says as he takes his eyes off Sam and looks up at Castiel.

Castiel nods once and moves to grab Sam's feet while Dean takes his shoulders. Together, they shuffle over to one of the metal tables and lift Sam on top of it, being careful not to jar him too much even though he can't feel it. Even with Sam gone, Dean can't hurt him.

Dean lays his hand on Sam's forehead one last time and cards his fingers through his hair, before he steps away from his brother. The movement tugs on his big brother instincts; every fiber of his being screams at him to step back closer to Sam. But he can't. He has something he needs to do.

"Tell me everything," Dean demands.

"I don't know much," Castiel replies, looking Dean straight in the eye.

"Well for starters, how'd you know Sam was…" Dean can't say the word, can't even form the beginning syllable.

"The protective sigils carved in your ribs stop working if you die," Castiel says with the slightest glance towards Sam.

"When did you stop feeling them working for Sam?"

"I do not know mortal time…"

"Events then, Cas, what was the last thing you did?" Dean demands impatiently.

"Talked to you on the phone."

"And then?"

"Waited for you."

Dean curses. Some time between talking to Sam on the phone for the last time and taking his little time traveling trip, Sam had been kidnapped, beaten, tested for evil, and finally hung. It gave whoever did it about a two hour time frame and Dean knows that Sam didn't go down without a fight. The kid would've fought tooth and nail.

That means that bastards couldn't have gone far and Dean is coming for them.

"Anything else?" Dean grounds out, his fists aching to smash into something.

Castiel looks hesitant, "Dean, I know this is difficult, but seeking revenge is not going to help. It is not going to bring Sam back."

Dean looks like he's going to kill the angel, "I know that Cas, but whoever did this? They aren't getting away with it, there's no way in hell."

"Revenge destroyed your brother, how do you know it will not do the same to you?" Castiel presses as he moves closer to Dean.

"I don't know and I don't care," Dean states fiercely, "But someone killed Sam, murdered him in cold blood and I'm not letting it go."

"The apocalypse…"

"I don't give a damn about the apocalypse!" Dean shouts, "Don't you understand? Sam. Is. Dead. And he's not coming back this time! And the only thing I can do about it, is hunt down the bastards who did it! Because…"

Dean trails off as sobs threaten to take him over again, and he visibly tries to pull himself together, "Because I failed him. Because I'm the one who let him walk away. When he called I didn't even - it was the last time I talked to him, Cas, and I told him we were better off apart. That we weren't stronger together. It wasn't true."

Castiel watches Dean with a frown, sympathy shinning through his eyes as the strongest human he knows falls apart.

"It wasn't true," Dean repeats softly, his eyes closed.

Castiel breathes deeply, wondering if this is what his superiors were talking about when they said he was getting too close to Dean Winchester, "My powers are not what they used to be."

Dean lets out a harsh, short laugh and Castiel ignores it, "But I can try to piece together what happened here. The picture might be fractured but if you want…I can try."

Dean's eyes open and he stares at Castiel like the angel is his last hope on earth, a life savor in the middle of the ocean, and then he nods. Castiel walks until he is toe to toe with Dean and then he pauses, "Are you sure you want to see this? I could…"

"Cas," Dean interrupts, "I'm sure. I have to."

Castiel nods and then lifts his hand.


	2. Time Warp

"_And I will find a way to hunt you down  
__I'll go to every niche and corner of this town.  
I won't stop until the bleeding all has run out."_

_-A Skylit Drive, 'Those Cannons Could Sink a Ship'_

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**Chapter 2**

Dean hears them before he sees them. The ominous shouts from outside the warehouse make his skin tingle with a combination of terror and unadulterated rage. In the near distance he can hear a tailgate slam followed by some struggling, which no doubt is due to Sam. The combined shouts and yells make it sound like a witch hunt is in progress. God, how many people was Sam up against? What were the odds? Four to one? Five? More?

The thought makes Dean's hands clench and his teeth come together so hard that Castiel had to have heard it.

"Try to remember that they can not see us, this is just a mirage," Castiel says as if he knows what Dean is thinking, like he can see the building need for bloodshed in the hunter's eyes.

The door to the warehouse slams open and bounces of the wall with a sharp bang, making a ghost of a flinch pass over Dean's face. Two people walk in first, one of them with the offending rope in hand and the other with what's probably a jug of holy water. The one with the rope Dean recognizes immediately and he feels a wash of betrayal cloak him. Dean remembers him helping Bobby out a few times, even helping his dad every once in awhile back in the day. His name is Tim and he used to be a good man, a good hunter. The one with the holy water doesn't register in Dean's memory but he seems to be a partner with Tim, a friend.

Sam is next. Dean's heart does a strange jump in his chest, like it gets excited to see Sam alive and then remembers that soon, Sam's going to die. It's painful and Dean swears that his soul shatters just a little bit more. Dean sweeps an assessing glance over Sam to take a damage inventory. As far as he can tell, Sam is more or less unhurt. There's a bruise on his temple which means that he was probably unconscious for a while, and his hands are tied behind his back. This means that all the damage, the _real_ damage happened at the warehouse.

Whoever is behind his brother reaches out and pushes, making Sam stumble into the room. Dean growls at the mistreatment but Sam isn't hurt, just visibly annoyed.

Two more hunters follow in after Sammy, both of which Dean doesn't recognize, but that's ok, because he has all he needs. Tim is going to lead him to the others.

"Mick! Go get the rest of the stuff!" Tim shouts as he points out the door to the truck that's most likely parked right out side the entrance.

Mick nods once and scurries out, either overly excited to get started or frightened of what would happen to him if he didn't get his ass in gear. Mick returns in no time flat with a metal fold up chair and lead pipe in hand.

Dean's stomach drops sickeningly as he stares at the lead pipe, suddenly horrified because he knows where all of Sam's bruises and broken bones came from.

They unfold the chair and slam Sam into it, which only makes Sam glare harder. Tim snatches the pipe out of Mick's hand and stalks up to Sam, which immediately makes Dean move forward, his instincts screaming at him to step in between his brother and the attacker.

Tim lifts the pipe and rests it against Sam's cheek. Sam flinches, expecting to get hit, but all Tim does is rest it there.

"We told you we'd be back, Sammy Boy," Tim says evenly, barely disguised disgust in his voice.

"I told you I'd be here," Sam replies stiffly, glaring with all his might, "And it's Sam."

Dean pauses and looks back and forth between Sam and Tim. Back? Here? Sam had a run in with them before this?

Tim smiles as a small chuckle escapes him before he gently pats Sam's face with the pipe, "Your dad was stubborn too, reckless. Your brother I hear is the same way."

"Don't talk about my family," Sam growls, his face tight with growing anger as he twists his bound wrists, trying to loosen the hold.

"Talk about who? Dean?" Time taunts, "Those demons told me all about Dean: his little trip downstairs, his not so subtle relationship with Jim, Jack and Jose, and oh yeah, his not so loving feelings for you."

"Shut. Up. You hear me? You don't know anything about my brother so shut up!" Sam shouts, his face tinged red and his nostrils flaring with absolute rage.

"I know your brother left your miserable, apocalypse starting ass. I know he's not coming to save you this time," Tim replies as he kneels down to Sam's level.

Sam doesn't grace that with a reply and Dean can see the acceptance in his brother's expression, like he knows that everything Tim's saying to him is true.

"No, come on, Sammy, don't believe this crap," Dean says after he swallows down the overwhelming guilt that's threatening to consume him, because he really hadn't come to save Sam this time. He had failed his baby brother in the worst way possible. Again.

"To tell you the truth, I don't know why Dean hasn't done this himself. Your brother is a good hunter, knows that evil things need killin'," Tim continues and this time, Sam actually flinches.

"Because Dean doesn't kill humans," Sam replies fiercely, "He's better than you'll ever be."

Dean's eyes burn with more tears and he wants nothing more than to beat Tim and his buddies into a pulp, and then initiate the biggest chick flick hug ever with his brother. But he forces himself to stay still, to try to keep it together, as he watches the events unfold.

"See, that's the thing. You're not human, are you Sam? Not any more. Sucking down demon blood, using your freak powers, and starting the apocalypse don't really count as being human."

Once again, Dean can see the raw guilt and acceptance in Sam's face, "I didn't know. I'm trying…"

Sam gets cut off as Tim lands a right hook into Sam's face, snapping his head to the side. It's by no means the hardest punch Sam's ever taken but it makes blood swell on his lower lip, and makes Sam blink a little bit to clear his head.

"Trying doesn't really cut it when it's the end of the world," Tim says, "Or when my best friend has to pay for it with his blood instead of yours."

Sam spits a little bit of blood from his mouth and shifts in the chair, a new, barely visible fear settling over his face.

"Don't," Sam mutters, his eyes wide, "Don't make me."

"What? Demon blood? Oh no, Sammy, the time for that has passed," Tim replies as he stands and backs away from Sam, "Too little, too late and all that."

Dean really, really doesn't like the sounds of this conversation. And he really doesn't like the way Tim is stepping back, falling into a nearly undetectable fighting position. Sam must see it too because Dean can see him mentally preparing himself for the hit.

Tim strikes hard, swinging his whole upper body as his arm follows through with the pipe, connecting with Sam's face. Dean visibly starts and winces as the pipe hits Sam, his stomach doing a sickening flip. An almost inaudible crack sounds as the pipe hits and Sam yells out with pain, his head snapping violently to the side. Dean can see Sam's jaw clenched tightly as Sam struggles not to make another sound, his chest heaving as he attempts to breathe through the pain. At this point, Dean's not sure if it's Sam's jaw or cheek bone that's broken.

"That son of a bitch," Dean growls as he takes a few threatening steps towards Tim.

Castiel lands a hand on Dean's arm, "We aren't really here, Dean. You might disrupt the image."

Dean stops but glares murderously, almost inhumanly, at Tim.

Tim nods once to Mick, who's holding the jug of holy water, silently ordering him to dump the liquid over Sam's body. Mick moves fast and twists the top of the jug before he throws the contents on Sam in a single motion. Sam seems a little surprised at the water as he sputters and then shakes it off his head, reminding Dean of a wet dog. Dean cracks a tiny smile, thinking of how he'd normally make fun of his brother for that. The smile quickly falls as Dean remembers that this is the past, and Sam's not coming back from it.

"Nothing happened," says one of the nameless hunters from behind Tim.

"No shit, jackass!" Tim snaps in frustration, effectively shutting up the other man.

Sam continues to blink water from his eyes as he stares up at Tim wearily, as if he's trying to figure out what their next move is.

Tim draws a wicked looking silver knife from a holster in his jeans, and it doesn't take long for Sam or Dean to put two and two together.

Sam's eyes widen and then narrow as he puts up a shaky mask to conceal how scared he really is. Sam's never had as good of poker face as Dean, but he can still pull it off in the right moment. Dean doesn't think this is the right moment. He can see right through his little brother and right now, Dean sees fear, determination, anger and defeat. Sam's ready to go down but he has too much pride to do it without a fight, so he's going to kick and scream the whole way, but he doesn't expect to walk away from this. Dean wonders if he even wants to.

"You fight them, Sammy," Dean mutters as his fists twitch, his whole body shaking with the effort to stay where he is, "Fight, goddamnit."

"I think some justice is in order, don't you?" Tim asks, flipping the knife a little bit, letting it catch the light in the room, "The world, Sam, that's who's going to pay for your bloodletting, the whole. damn. world."

Sam's still trying to breathe through the pain in his face as he looks at Tim with such sorrowful acceptance that it makes Dean's teeth grit, and stomach clench. Dean can see it in Sammy's face, he knows that this was the moment where Sam's determination to live faded. This was where Sam realized he needed, maybe even wanted, to die.

Tim leans in closer, his hands resting on the sides of the chair as his face comes within inches of Sam's, "And my best friend, he paid for your vampirism too."

Sam flinches but Dean is unsure if it's because Tim just called him a vampire or if it's because he was just blamed for a man's death.

Tim pushes away from Sam only to stick his foot out and kick Sam dead in the chest, making the chair rock backwards and crash onto the floor.

When Dean pulled a similar move on Gordon a few years back it was satisfying, sure, but it was also mildly amusing. Now, with someone else doing it to Sam, Dean finds it nothing but infuriating and it automatically puts another nail in Tim's coffin.

Tim sneers down at Sam with an expression of satisfaction that Dean knows well. It's the same expression that crosses his face right after he takes out some evil son of a bitch and saves the day. He's absolutely not ok with that look being directed towards Sam, like Sam _is_ that evil son of a bitch.

Tim sinks down next to Sam and Dean has to move to the other side of the room to see what's happening, even though he already has a pretty good idea of what's coming next.

Sam's still not recovered from the last hit. After the combined kick and fall, he's still gasping for breath, even though it must be agony with his shattered cheek bone. He's paying little attention to Tim who's crouched next to him.

Tim is tapping Sam's sternum with the blade, like a demented morose code, "Feel free to scream, no one's gonna hear you out here but us."

Dean wants to fast forward through this. He wants to tell Cas to take them back because damn it, he doesn't know if he can watch this anymore and not do something about it. But he can't, he doesn't deserve to, because he knows that this is his fault. If he had let Sam come back hunting with him, he'd have known something was wrong; he'd have known that Sam was in trouble. But he didn't let him come back and God help him, he wished he had. More than anything, he wishes he'd taken Sam back when his brother pleaded for him to.

Tim makes the first cut and he doesn't hold back, pushing the blade through layers of skin and into the muscle. Sam manages to get through the first slice without much sound but before he can prepare himself for the next, Tim swiftly presses the blade into his skin again. The second cut forces a strained grunt from Sam's chest that soon morphs into a short, rough scream.

Dean can't help but notice that this goes beyond the point of testing for evil, this is torture. Realizing this, Dean's more than pissed, and he's more than sickened, he's devastated. Everything he tried to protect Sam from, everything that he ever wanted to prevent from happening, happened anyways all because his pride got in the way. Sam died once and Dean swore that as long as he was around, it'd never happen again. Well, Dean was alive and kicking and it happened again. Dean promised himself that he was going to keep Sam protected from the hunting community because he knew that if anyone found out what his kid brother could do, they'd be after him. Fail. And recently, he promised himself that Sam wouldn't ever know what it felt liked to be tortured, because Dean was never going to let him get into a situation like that. But as Sam finally gets too weak to hold back a full blown scream, Dean is harshly reminded that he failed at that too.

Tim finally lets up and stands, staring at his handiwork with cold eyes. Blood is flowing freely from Sam's wounds, pooling under his torso as it runs down his ribs and stomach. His chest is heaving from the pain, his skin paler than usual and shimmering with sweat.

Dean swallows as he slowly kneels down behind Sam so that Sam's head is almost resting against his bent knees.

"Dean…" Castiel says softly, a warning, to not touch anything.

Dean nods but doesn't look up, he just concentrates on Sam. Sam's eyes open and Dean can see the pain clearly etched into the blue green orbs. He wants nothing more than to reach out, try to sooth a little bit of Sam's hurt, but he can't.

"We never should've separated. I was wrong, ok, Sammy? I was wrong about everything, just…hang on," Dean says, his voice low and meant for only Sam.

He's not sure why he's saying it because he knows Sam can't hear him. He knows that these are events that have already happened and he knows that Sam is going to die, but it makes him feel better, like he tried.

"Please just hold on."

Dean hears a thump and an unmistakable shake of salt, and his blood runs cold. How could he have forgotten about the salt? He looks up and finds himself staring up at Tim, who's holding a can of Morton Salt and looking mighty pleased about it. Sam must've looked at him around that time too because Dean hears him gasp, because he knows what's coming and knows that it's not going to feel good.

"Just checkin' your story about being human, Sam, you don't mind, do ya?" Tim asks as he flips the metal tab up on the top of the salt canister and then tips it over.

The salt hits Sam's bloody torso with a soft hiss, like faint rain, and Sam let's out a hoarse shout. All the muscles in his body tense up tight as he bucks and tries to get away from what must be intense pain. Sam's arms however, are still tied behind him and he's still in that damn chair, so all he really manages to do is scrape the chair against the cement bellow him. Soon but not nearly soon enough, the pain edges off enough to where Sam can stop squirming and just grit his teeth against the horribly sting. A few tears have leaked from his eyes and Dean finds himself reaching out to brush them away, only to retract his hand after he remembers that he can't touch.

"Do you want to leave?" Castiel asks from behind him

Dean shakes his head no, knowing that he couldn't leave even if he wanted to.

"Dean," a soft voice mutters.

Dean starts and looks at Sam with wide eyes, wondering if he imagined Sam saying his name or if somehow Sam can actually see him.

"Sammy?" Dean rasps hopefully as he searches Sam's face for an indicator that Sam had heard him.

"We talked about this already, Sammy Boy. Dean's not comin' this time," Tim says from above him as he leans down and hoists the chair, and with it Sam, up off the floor.

That's when Dean understands that Sam didn't know he was there…Sam just wanted him to be. After he gets past that painful realization, Dean stands up so that he's more level with Sam and the hunters holding him captive.

Sam lets out a pained groan as pressure is put on his cuts and the salt is ground deeper into the lacerations. Sam's a little bit distracted so he doesn't see what's coming next but Dean sure as hell can. Tim once again has the pipe in hand, and Dean curses and snarls at the oblivious hunter. In that moment, Dean wants nothing more than to rip Tim apart, to utilize the skills he learned in hell and put them to good use.

Dean remembers the bruises on Sam's chest and stomach, and he can't believe that he didn't notice that they were absent from his brother's torso when Tim was cutting him up. That means that the bastard beat Sam after he had sliced his chest all to hell.

"I swear if it's the last damn thing I do, I'm going to kill you, you son of a bitch," Dean growls with conviction, even if Tim can't hear him.

As far as Dean is concerned, Tim accepted his fate as soon as he lifted the pipe and started to swing at Sam's already worn body.

He can only watch one hit before it gets to be too much. He'd do anything for Sam, die for him, but he can't watch him hurt like this anymore. When Tim swings for a second time, Dean turns his head, trying desperately to divert his attention from the sounds of Sam getting beaten. But nothing he does can keep him from jumping every time he hears metal connecting with flesh, and nothing can keep him from wincing every time Sam sharply cries out. When silence finally falls over the warehouse, Dean's hesitant to look. With how quiet it is, he can't help but wonder if Sam had actually died from the beating and not from the strangulation. But when he finally gathers his nerves and looks again, he can still see Sammy's chest moving with oxygen. It looks labored and Dean knows he's in extreme pain, but he's still alive.

"Tim, man, we've worked him over enough, let's just get it done and get out of here," Mick says as Tim stares at Sam, pipe still in hand.

For a second, it looks like Tim is going to protest but he nods and tosses the pipe, "Throw the rope up."

Castiel stands next to Dean, "You don't have to watch this."

"I can't leave him," Dean replies softly, his voice catching as someone tosses the rope over the beam.

"Dean, this isn't real."

Dean doesn't answer. He doesn't even know what he'd say. How can he explain that leaving now, even though this is just a video tape of the past, would feel like betraying Sam all over again? Like abandoning him? Sam was conscious for every moment of this and Dean's not going to leave him alone for a second time, even if staying is ripping him apart inside.

One of the hunters drag the chair that Sam's slumped in across the cement floor. The metal feet against the concrete makes a terrible screeching sound.

Sam seems to come around a little more from the movement, or maybe it's his extra stubborn survival instinct that's kicking in to tell him that something's very wrong. Tim grabs Sam's face harshly, forcing eye contact, "You're going to burn, boy, and it's no more than you deserve."

Dean can remember in vivid detail what it felt like when Sam died the first time. The loneliness, the pain, the defeat, the guilt, it was all so crippling that he was ready to stay in that little room with Sam until he either wasted away, or couldn't take it any more and put a bullet through his head. At least that time, he had the comfort of not knowing exactly is in hell and he had the comfort of knowing there was no way Sam was there. This time he knows what's in hell and he knows that Sam's there. And he's ready to walk through hell to get Sam out if he has to, because his brother isn't staying there. No way.

When they put the noose around Sam's neck, he looks panicked for all of thirty seconds before he settles into a disturbing peace, an acceptance that Dean never wanted to see on his defiant brother's face.

"Why'd you stop fighting, Sammy?" Dean whispers sadly, even though he already knows the answer. Sam stopped fighting because he had nothing left to fight for, because everything he used to fight for, doesn't exist any more.

He then swallows, a feeling of _fearpanicnonono_ washes over him like a tidal wave as someone pulls the rope, just enough to tighten around Sam's neck and make him sit straighter.

This is it, Dean knows it, and he wants to do nothing but find a way to stop it. The panic that has encased him is so intense that he's having trouble breathing, and his heart must be near cardiac arrest. The rope pulls tighter, actually lifting Sam out of the chair and making him gasp breathlessly. Dean finds himself involuntarily shouting, "No!" as the rope is pulled even more, pulling Sam closer and closer to the ceiling and farther away from Dean. He's not sure how long it takes because Sam hasn't moved very much through out the whole ordeal, but Dean can literally feel it when the life leaves his brother's body. It feels like a sucker punch, like someone reached in and ripped something out of his body, something meant to be there.

"Tie it off," Tim orders.

"Is someone going to call his brother?" Someone asks, immediately peeking Dean's attention.

Tim snorts, "Are you kidding? Dean basically left the freak for dead, he wouldn't give a shit. On second thought maybe we should, he might buy us a drink."

Dean's hands clench so hard his knuckles crack and his nails cut into his skin, "They're all dead."

"Dean…"

"Take us back," Dean orders, his actions and thoughts now officially driven by rage.

Castiel looks hesitant but he puts his hand on Dean's shoulder and takes them back to the present, the sounds of Sam's killers echoing behind them.

* * *

"_Fight for your chance at life  
They'll never find out where I buried you."_


	3. Preparations

**Chapter Three**

The silence left behind after the images fade is unnerving and absolute, and it makes Dean's ears ring. Like after staring at something bright, the imprint of Sam's murder still linger in the empty, morose warehouse. If Dean stares long enough, he can still see Sam's body hanging from the ceiling with blood dripping over the kaleidoscope of bruises on his skin. It fills him with a pain so deep and intense that he doesn't know how to contain it, but at the same time, he doesn't know how to let it go. It's nothing like he's ever felt before, not with any previous loss he's ever suffered, including Sam's two years ago. He can feel it bouncing around inside him, red hot, caged, and begging to be let out. Dean feels like if it was unleashed it'd be a physical entity and it'd be the color of rage. Or it'd be something worse, something from hell.

Dean can feel the energy crawling up his spine, the need to hurt something and see it bleed, to feel the perverse pleasure that comes with seeing his victim struggle and flail. He felt the beginnings of it when he killed that vampire the night they met Gordon. He perfected it in hell. He felt it explode when he tortured Alastair. The only difference between this time and every other time is that this time, his target isn't a demon or something that goes bump in the night. It's human. Dean suddenly finds that it doesn't make a difference. He knows it should scare him, disgust him, and a year ago it would have. But it just doesn't. In fact, he wants nothing more than to open his arms, embrace it, and let it take over.

As he makes peace with his alter persona, he turns to Castiel, who is staring at him with wide, sympathetic eyes that are laced with panic.

"Are you gonna tell me where they are or do I have to find them myself?" Dean asks, his voice chilling the air with promise.

"Sam would not want this," Castiel states, going right in for the kill, "He would not want you to do this to yourself."

Dean smirks humorlessly as he nods over to Sam's lax body, "I don't think he cares about much of anything right now."

"Dean…"

"With or without your help, Cas, what's it going to be?" Dean interrupts flatly.

"Dean, please, think about this. If you kill those men, you _will_ be condemned back to hell. Is that what you want?" Castiel demands fiercely as he steps directly in Dean's personal space, his eyes cutting through him.

Dean stares back unflinchingly, "If that's what it takes."

Castiel shakes his head, his anger apparent, "This is without a doubt one of the most ignorant, arrogant things you've ever done, and I will not be a part of it."

"Fine by me," Dean says evenly.

Dean starts to turn, making a motion to leave the warehouse, but his eyes catch Sam one more time. For a brief second, the coldness is washed away from his expression and his face contracts, like the tears are about to start again. But as quickly as it appears, it vanishes and Dean moves brashly to stalk out of the building.

"Dean…"

"See you around, Cas," Dean interrupts, his stride not breaking as he breaches the doorway to the warehouse.

The night is cold enough for Dean to see his breath but he barely notices the bitterness of the wind, he's too concentrated on the task at hand. He has no idea where he is, city or state, and he's without the Impala, which means he's without weapons and supplies. It makes things a little bit harder but it's not going to stop him. He takes his cell out of his back pocket and robotically scrolls through the top set of numbers before hitting send.

The other end picks up almost immediately, "Singer."

Trying to sound normal, Dean clears his throat, "Bobby, it's Dean."

He must fail at sounding like everything's just fine because Bobby immediately pauses, and Dean can picture the concern on the older man's face, "Dean. Everything alright?"

"Fine. I just need some things," Dean immediately replies, his tone border lining snappish.

"What kinds of things?"

"Tim Holland's number and the last location Sam gave you."

"Tim Holland?" Bobby reiterates, surprised "I just sent him and a few other hunters to Garber, Oklahoma to take care of a demon problem. Sam called and said he wouldn't touch it with a ten foot silver pole, said he wouldn't call you either. You in Oklahoma?"

Dean swallows as his rage burns hotter in the inferno of his stomach, "Yeah, I'm here. I need to hook up with Sam but he's not answering the phone, probably asleep or showering. You got an address?"

"Yeah," Bobby drawls uncertainly, "You sure nothing's going on?"

For a brief moment, Dean considers telling Bobby everything. The man is like a father to them and he deserves to know about what happened to Sam. He was the one who didn't give up on the kid and he considered Sam family, so he knows that Bobby wouldn't try to stop him, he might even lend a hand. But something won't let Dean say anything. Maybe he doesn't want to hear the "don't dirty your soul" speech, or maybe he's just trying to protect Bobby, seems how he can't protect anyone else. He knows that after it's all said and done that he'll have to tell him but for now, Bobby's better off in the dark.

"Yeah, I'm sure," Dean finally replies.

"Uh huh," Bobby mutters, obviously unconvinced, "Sam's staying in the Great Plains Motel, he didn't give me the room number."

"And the phone number?" Dean's teeth grit as he tries to keep his impatience in check.

There's another slight pause before Bobby says, "555-3102."

"Thanks, Bobby."

"You stay out of trouble, you hear? We got enough shit going down without you needing bail money," Bobby replies. His words are somewhat harsh but his tone all concern and care.

Dean smirks darkly, his eyes gleaming, "Don't worry, I won't get caught."

He clicks the phone shut before he can hear Bobby's reply.

With part one of his plan complete, Dean sniffs against the cold and narrows his eyes as he surveys his surroundings for part two. There looks like there are some houses a few blocks down, hopefully with accessible cars that don't have newer alarm systems so that he can hijack one. He starts walking, moving briskly to keep his blood circulating and to waste as little time as possible. He has no idea if Tim and his gang stuck around town or not, so he can't spend a whole bunch of time getting his plan in action. Chances are they hit a bar or bunkered down in a motel for the night, because it's late. But then again, time isn't the same for hunters as it is for other people.

The first house he comes across has a Nissan GT-R and no way in hell is he getting into that without sounding ten different alarms. He strikes gold with the second, which has a Chrysler LeBaron parked out back that has definitely seen better days…if LeBarons ever had good days to begin with. He has the door jimmied in under a minute and the wires yanked and sparked in the same amount of time. It's rusted with hideous brown interior and it smells like a boot, but it runs, which is all Dean cares about right now. He pulls the car out of the backyard and floors it down the street, thankful that he's out in the middle of nowhere with no street lights that can make identifying him easy.

As he clunks along the road in the car that feels like it's going to fall apart if he pushes it above 60, he pulls out his phone one more time, and dials information for the number to the local cops.

Normally when he needs to find someone by tracking their phone he'd call the phone company directly, or do something that's not as drastic as involving the 5-0. But desperate times and all, and he doesn't feel like screwing around

"Garber Police Department, how can I help you?"

The bubbly voice on the other end grates on Dean's ears, but he swallows and tries to sound professional, "This is Dean Murdock with the FBI…"

"FBI?" The woman on the other end repeats, audibly stunned, "What can I do for you?"

Dean clenches his jaw, "Someone in our jurisdiction wandered into your area, I need to track the phone number. I was wondering if you could do that for me?"

"Yes sir," she replies, "I'll need your badge number for confirmation."

Shit. Shit. _Shit_.

All his IDs are in the Impala. The Impala is in Kansas City three hundred miles away. Shit. He has one option. It's desperate and it's going to alert Bobby that something is definitely up, but he can't let this go. No way.

"Can you get confirmation from my Director? My badge was stolen today and I haven't been back to HQ to replace it," Dean replies and closes his eyes briefly, wondering if this is about to be the stupidest thing he's ever done.

"Yes sir, we can, we just need the number, please."

Dean rattles off Bobby's FBI number that he memorized for emergencies like this, and waits as she puts him on hold.

It takes what feels like forever, and a few miles go by in the car before her annoying voice is back, "Agent Murdock? You're all set. Give us a little bit of time and we'll call you right back with the information."

"Thank you. And top priority, ok? This guy's a real son of a bitch."

Before she can respond his phone beeps, alerting him that there's an incoming call. It's Bobby, Dean knows it without looking, and he snaps the phone shut, cutting off the sound. He's going to have to ditch it before Bobby gets pissed off enough or worried enough to track _his_ GPS. Another shrill beep sounds, signaling a voicemail. Dean doesn't listen to it.

Turns out that Tim stuck around town and is currently tossing back a few in a place called Rudy's. Dean didn't think that it was possible for him to be any angrier than he was but that's exactly what he is. That bastard murdered his brother and then went to a bar, like nothing had happened, like he hadn't beat Sam senseless and strung him up. He can picture it now, Tim with a beer in hand, re-telling the story with his pals, having a laugh over the demon freak that they hunted and killed.

Dean clenches his hands on the steering wheel in attempt to steady his shaking limbs, as his whole body shivers with uncontrollable fury. He's glad that he needs to go to Sam's motel first because if he went after Tim right now like this, it'd be over too fast and it'd be too sloppy. He doesn't want to get caught and more than that, he wants to make Tim suffer.

He passes by the Great Plains Motel by accident. The plan had been to hit the first gas station he saw to ask where the motel was. It kind of worked out that way because the first gas station he saw was conveniently across the street from the motel. Dean pulls into the parking lot and does nothing but stare at the building for a few moments. Cold sweat pricks his skin as he takes in the dank missionary walls, and the wooden cut-out horse pasted up to the double doors. This is where Sam was taken from.

Dean exhales and exits the car, the door squeaks and grinds loudly as he forces it open. When Dean stalks into the front office, he wonders if the stars are aligning and someone's smiling down on his quest for blood. The office manager is gone and the guest registry is right there out in the open, just spread out like it was waiting for Dean. He takes a quick look around to make sure that no one's about to bust in before he scans over the list, waiting for one of Sam's aliases to jump out at him. It doesn't matter if Sam used something other than the normal ones that they cycle through, because Dean knows his brother well enough that he'd be able to pick it out, even if it was…Keith McLean.

American Pie was Sam's favorite song when he was sixteen, he went around singing it for the better part of three months. Dean's stomach clenches at the memory and he pushes away from the counter, making his way to room 22. He swallows and forces himself to breathe as he turns the doorknob, unsurprised to find it unlocked.

The room is a mess. The bed is unmade and the top mattress is shifted off the box spring. The table lamp is on the floor but unbroken. A shattered water glass is on the other side of the room. But all of that isn't what makes Dean's heart stutter and crack just a little more. It's the charred remains of what looks to be all of Sam's fake ids in the sink, it's the lack of personal belongs in the room, it's the dry blood on the floor.

Dean wonders how much Sam fought. His brother wasn't small and he was a damned good fighter, and even though he was out numbered, he should have been able to do some damage to his attackers. From what he remembers, Tim didn't have a scratch on him, neither did the others. Was he surprised? Drugged? Or when they came did Sam just let them have him, struggling only because it was instinct. The idea of Sam rolling over and letting himself be taken makes Dean's skin crawl, but the pit in his stomach tells him that it's most likely what happened.

Dean shakes his head, telling himself that he needs to snap out of it because the clock is ticking. Quickly he checks Sam's usual hiding places for weapons and comes across Sam's favorite Taurus 9mm under the pillow, and his favorite bowie in the side table drawer. He pushes aside the grief that surfaces as he holds Sam's weapons as he pockets them both, and exits the motel room, shutting the door silently.


	4. Revenge: Best Served Bloody

A/N: **Warning for violence, basically torture. **I don't usually write violence like this but for this specific situation, I felt that it was justified. **But I am warning you, it's dark**. Also, the language is just a touch harsher than usual. Thank you to _Hunnique_ who was kind enough to beta for me and helped make this happen, and to everyone else for your continued support. Much love *insert pixilated heart here*.

* * *

"_I'm here, aren't I?"  
"Not entirely. You left part of yourself back in the pit. Let's see if we can get the two of you back together again, shall we?"  
"Let's get started."  
- Dean and Alastair, 'On the Head of a Pin'_

_

* * *

_**Chapter 4**

It had been laughably easy to track down the bar and kidnap the small group of hunters. So easy, in fact, that Dean's even more convinced that someone somewhere is funding his 'kill everyone' spree. For example, earlier he had decided that he needed to switch vehicles, because Chryslers aren't really ideal for body transportation. He had spotted the perfect set of wheels when he was dejectedly exiting Sam's motel room. The pickup truck that he had lifted had been a hunter's, not like a supernatural hunter's, but a plain ole' game hunter's. The great thing about that was that it already came equipped with rope, knives and his favorite part, a tranq gun.

Like Dean said, it had been laughably easy.

Admittedly, he had felt a little bit like an amateur while hiding in the shadows with the gun, waiting for Tim and his buddies to exit the bar. Satisfaction washed it away when he pulled the trigger and saw the first man go down in the parking lot, without even seeing it coming. He took a few seconds to relish in the others' panic and useless defense positions before he buried the darts in the other three, one right after the other.

The hardest part of it all had been hauling the unconscious men to and from the back of the pickup truck. Honestly, the simplicity of it kind of put him on edge, but Dean isn't about to question it, He has work to do.

He pulls up to the deserted warehouse with the hunters in the back of the cab, still out cold. They'll probably be under for at least another forty-five minutes, which gives Dean plenty of time to set up. It's harder than he thought it would be; to walk back in the warehouse. When he crosses the threshold, his senses are completely incased in death and blood, making his stomach churn dangerously with sickness. Almost immediately, like an unwanted reflex, his eyes fix on Sam's body, still lying lax where Dean had left him. Dean swallows hard, his Adam's apple catching as he sweeps his gaze over his brother's corpse. It hasn't been long enough for any real decay to set in but Sam's skin is light gray, and looks like wax. Dean swears he can feel the cold temperature of the flesh from where he's standing. Dean finds himself wondering how he's going to be able to get through this with his dead brother just lying a few feet away. How's he supposed to act like it's not affecting him when really he's struggling to think, to breathe, to just _be_? But he knows this is what he has to do. He wants Tim to feel every inch of pain and terror that Sam felt, and then some. He wants him to see it exactly as Sam saw it.

Dean can't allow himself much time for this last moment, he needs to keep it together if he wants to carry this out properly, but there's one thing he needs to do. He forces himself forward, moving methodically until he's close enough to Sam to touch him. Then he shucks his leather jacket and drapes it over Sam's upper body gently, intending to pull it up over his head, but he pauses. Sam's face is broken but unguarded, and without all the defenses, Dean can see it. He can see the nine-year-old who was so smart yet still so innocent, the annoying sixteen-year-old, angry and defiant, the twenty-two-year old college geek that he practically stole from 'normal,' the twenty-four-year old who was terrified of his destiny and his older brother's deal, and the twenty-six-year old, who lost it all. In short, he can see his baby brother and all he stood for, and all that Dean ever cared about. It hits him like a kick to the chest because until this very moment, it didn't completely sink in that Sam is _gone_, and this time, it's forever.

And what's Dean supposed to do after he gets his retribution? Save the world? Let it burn? Eat one of his own bullets? Christ, that last option sounds pretty good. But…

Dean rubs this thumb lightly over Sam's icy cheek. Sam would never forgive him if he did that, not ever. But honestly, Dean doesn't know if that'll be enough to keep him from loading up his gun, because he knows from experience that trying to live without Sam is like trying to live without one of his lungs.

With a deep sigh, Dean pulls his hand back and tugs his leather jacket over Sam's face, effectively blocking him from the world, protecting him from the eyes of his killers. Stepping away, Dean builds his walls up again and erases everything inside him that isn't anger, hate, or driven by revenge. It's time to get this started.

He exits the warehouse once more and backs the truck up so that the tailgate is directly in front of the door. After that, he goes through the grueling yet necessary task of dragging the four hunters into the warehouse. The physical strain has sweat dripping off his nose and collecting at his hairline, but the jolt of glee that passes through him at the sight of having them all at his mercy is enough to make him not care. He sets Tim up first, lashing him to the chair that Sam had died in, the chair that is still streaked with his blood and has grains of salt stuck to it. Then, in the rickety, abandoned offices that are covered in dust, he locates extra chairs, and carries them out to where Tim is bound. He clumsily puts the other three men in their appointed chairs, knots their hands together, and restrains their ankles, making sure that any movement is either impossible or limited to useless struggling. By the time he's done, one of the nameless hunters is waking up, trying to blink the remaining haziness from his eyes.

Dean's smiles is slow and feral, "Morning, Sunshine! Nice nap?"

The man squeezes his eyes shut before opening them again and then grunts, "Winchester."

"Don't sound so surprised," Dean replies with fake cheer, "You should've known that the second you set your sights on my kid brother I'd be coming after you."

The man visibly swallows as Dean stares him down, watching as something primal and malicious makes itself present in Dean's eyes.

He starts to shake his head frantically, "I didn't want to do it, Tim…"

Dean swings his fist without warning, cutting off the excuse immediately. The man lets out a grunt in surprise and looks back at Dean with wide eyes.

"Shut. Up," Dean demands and then directs his attention to the others, who are also starting to come out of their sedation.

He grins widely and goes down the line, slapping the hunters' cheeks, "Wakey, wakey!"

When he gets to the end, where Tim is lethargically opening his eyes, he hauls off and punches him in the gut, making Tim gasp and snap awake immediately. Dean waits until Tim gathers himself and looks up. Unlike the others, who are fearful and hesitant, Tim appears unfazed and amused.

"Dean Winchester, as I live and breathe," Tim says with a slight chuckle, "I gotta admit, I didn't expect this from you."

"And what did you expect? A thank you card? A round at the bar?" Dean asks with a secretive smirk as Tim's smile falters a bit.

"You ain't gonna kill us," Tim states. Dean isn't sure if he really believes that or if he's just trying to convince himself.

Dean laughs lightly, the sound tainted by maliciousness, "You're right. I'm going to do much more than that."

"Why? Because I took out your freak brother? Kid was evil, Dean, he deserved to die and you know it."

The urge to beat Tim senseless is overwhelming but Dean holds it in, telling himself that he needs to take this slow, that it'll be worth it in the end if he can just keep himself together. So he forces himself to ignore what Tim said and to ignore all the other bullshit that he's sure to spout off.

"Hmm," Dean hums with a smirk and a short laugh, "Well, what do say, boys? How 'bout we get this started?"

All of them except Tim glance at each other with panicked expressions, each of them silently asking the other just how the hell they're going to get out of this. Dean grins because he knows that they're not. He pulls his gun out from his jeans, unlocking the safety and pulling back the hammer with one smooth motion. A few of them look relieved to see it, like they were expecting something worse.

"A gun? That's the best you've got, Winchester?" Tim mocks with a snort, "And here I was starting to get scared."

"Oh don't worry, Timmy, I've got something special planned for you," Dean retorts with a dark, promising smile and a wink.

"Who first? Mick?" Dean quips as he directs his attention to the other three.

Mick's eyes go wide and he starts to shake his head, but Dean aims and fires, letting the bullet fly through flesh and bone. Everyone jumps as Mick's head whiplashes before coming to a standstill, blood drizzling down the hole in his forehead. The hunter next to Mick stares at the dead man in shock, his eyes wide. He and Tim, who is also next to Mick, have perfect airbrush-like splatters of red on their faces.

"Next?" Dean asks as he moves his aim to the man who was gaping at Mick.

He turns his expression to Dean, and absolute terror visibly washes over him as he starts to struggle and pull at his bonds.

Dean looks amused, "Those are Boy Scout knots, Chuckles, you're not going anywhere. Last words?"

His last words are actually a frightened shout, cut off quickly by Dean's gun as the bullet does its damage to his head.

"You sonuvabitch," Tim grits, his body trembling against the ropes, "I'm going to make you bleed like a stuck pig."

Dean ignores him as his gaze locks on the last hunter.

"How about you, Sunshine?" Dean asks as he pulls the hammer back on his gun again, "last words?"

The man glares even though his eyes are shinning and his bottom lip is unsteady, "Go to hell."

The corners of Dean's lips pull up, "See you there."

_Bang. _

The last echoes of the gunshot fade and the warehouse falls into silence. Even Tim, who had previously been cussing up a storm, has shut up to stare at the massive blood pools under the three chairs. Dean tucks his gun back into his jeans and walks around the three dead hunters, tip toeing around all the red on the floor. He stops when the object he's after comes into view. It's the lead pipe that Tim beat Sam with, lying dormant on the floor against a wall. It has rusted spots of red on it from Sam's injuries, making Dean wish that he had cleaned it first but he knows that it's too late now. He grabs the cold cylinder, hearing the metal scrape against the cement floor as he palms it.

The blood from the three other hunters smacks under his feet as he makes his way back to Tim. The sound reminds him of walking through rain on pavement. Dean comes to a standstill in front of Tim and he tilts his head down to catch his victim's eyes. A malevolent grin spreads across his face when he sees the badly concealed fear looking back at him.

"So," Dean leers with a smirk as he twirls the pry bar in his hand, "What do I owe you?"

Confusion flitters over Tim's face for a brief moment before it's erased by Dean, who lashes out with the pipe and strikes his face, hard. It's the perfect recreation of what Tim did to Sam.

Dark satisfaction settles in Dean's expression as Tim hollers in surprised pain.

"That, for starters," Dean comments, wondering if Tim heard him over his own yelling.

When Tim had done the same thing to Sam, Sam had yelped but then fallen silent as stubbornness and training took over. Much to Dean's pleasure, Tim doesn't do that. After the hit, he keeps shouting and making sound, despite the pain that must be shooting through his jaw. However, after a minute he's finally reduced to gasps and winces.

Dean smiles.

"Gee, Timmy, that was just one hit. How are you gonna pull through the rest of it?" He mocks curiously as he tilts his head.

Tim glares but Dean sees right through the façade, Tim's scared shitless.

Good, Dean thinks, he should be.

"But first, you and me have some things to talk about," Dean says as he uses the pipe to motion to Tim and then himself.

"I have nothing to say to you, you bastard," Tim grits as he tries not to move his injured jaw.

"Oh, you don't?" Dean repeats as he pushes the pipe into Tim's face, relishing Tim's wince, "Are you sure about that?"

Dean doesn't give any warning as he whips the pipe away from Tim's face and slams it into one of his knees. A small crack sounds and Tim hollers.

"Are you sure you don't want to talk?" Dean reiterates as Tim tries to catch his breath.

All Tim does is glare and Dean nods, "I'll take that as a yes. Let's start with how'd you know about Sam?"

Tim continues to glower and then spits out some blood before answering, "Bobby Singer sent us out here to take care of a demon problem that your brother caused by opening the damn gates of hell. The demons told us."

"Uh huh," Dean replies as he rests the pipe on Tim's uninjured knee, "and then?"

Tim's gaze flickers down to the weapon on his knee and then back up to Dean, "Confronted him about it, got into a scuffle, told him we'd be back. _We came back_."

"And damn if that wasn't the worst mistake of your life," Dean says, "Cause I kill anything that comes after my brother."

"Didn't think it'd matter this time, considering all he's done, fuckin' _monster_," Tim spits as he glares unabashedly at Sam's covered corpse.

Dean immediately twists his whole upper body and slams the pipe into Tim's other knee, without a doubt breaking it. Tim jumps as far as he can in the chair and screams, spit and blood spraying from his lips.

Dean grabs a hold of Tim's jaw, digging his fingers into the damage he's already caused, "Don't you dare look at him. You understand me? Don't even _think_ about him."

Tim nods, as his eyes squeeze shut in pain.

"Good," Dean says and releases Tim's face roughly.

Dean stands and sets the pipe down on the floor again, and then he draws the knife that he took from Sam's motel room from his leg holster. Tim stares wide eyed at the long, wicked knife as Dean flips it over in his hand.

"Don't look so scared, Timmy, I thought you liked knives?" Dean questions as he slips the knife under Tim's shirt, and yanks it up fast, splitting the garment in two.

Tim flinches and gasps like he's expecting to have his guts spilling on the floor, and then sighs almost inaudibly when he sees the two halves of his shirt hanging off him.

Nervous, anticipatory energy flows over Dean's skin like water droplets, feeding right into the blade that's in his hand. He knows this is it, the point of no return, his last chance to back out.

Like that's ever going to happen.

"Don't worry," Dean says as he shifts his weight in front of Tim, "We'll start off nice and small. Oh, and feel free to scream, no one's going to hear you out here but me."

Tim's obviously shocked at having his own words thrown back at him and Dean takes a second to relish it, before he puts the blade on the edge of Tim's bellybutton, and drags it up mid chest. The cut isn't very deep, but it's long and the position of it makes it more painful. Tim makes it through the laceration without much sound and a wince.

"See? That wasn't so bad," Dean says and claps Tim on the shoulder, "I can't promise about the next few though. How many times did you cut Sam? Five or so?"

Dean doesn't let Tim answer as he moves the knife to his armpit and slices a thin line in the sensitive flesh of his underarm. Tim's pain filled hiss quickly turns into a short shout as Dean digs the knife in further as he lets up on the knife.

"I mean, that's kinda overkill, right? To test for evil? How'd that go, by the way?" Dean asks with feigned curiosity, "With the salt, the knife, and the holy water, you'd think he would've sizzled somewhere if he was as evil as you say he was."

Dean moves to Tim's pectoral muscle and doesn't hold back, cutting in deep through flesh and tissue, making blood run down Tim's chest in rivers. Tim's full blown scream echoes through the warehouse.

Dean hisses in mock sympathy, "Ouch. Maybe that was too deep. Don't want you to bleed out too soon, we've still got evil testing to do! But you shouldn't have anything to worry about there, right, Timmy?"

Tim glares and Dean smirks, "Didn't think so."

Dean moves over to Tim's right side and pushes down on his ribs with his fingers, as if feeling for something. He gets to the end of the rib cage and grins, "You know, I was in hell for forty years and I gotta tell you, you're getting off easy."

Dean flips the knife over in his hand and presses the tip into Tim's side, making Tim gasp and try to wiggle away.

"I mean, sure, I was the victim for thirty of it and the torturer for only ten, but honestly, I think I learned more by being carved up than I did by doing the carving."

Inch by inch the knife slips into Tim's chest cavity, right in between the last two ribs. Dean watches with a twisted grin as red gushes and slithers out from the wound, curling lovingly around the embedded blade. It's in deep enough to cause extreme pain but not far enough to kill him. Yet.

Tim's yelling and panting, struggling to take in air through the burning agony. Dean smirks and shifts the knife a bit, scrapping the edge of it along Tim's rib bone.  
The howling scream that emits from his mouth makes Dean chuckle lightly in cruel amusement, "Sorry. Accident."

"Just kill me," Tim gasps before he coughs, causing blood to splatter out of his mouth.

Dean snarls and yanks the knife free, making Tim shout roughly and curl forward instinctively. The movement against his restraints only causes him more pain.

Dean crouches down on his haunches so that they are eye to eye, "Don't worry about that, we'll get there."

He pauses to drag the knife across and into Tim's other pectoral muscle. Predictably, Tim yells and whimpers as the knife separates his skin.

"Now, let's see," Dean says as he puts his hand on his chin, "How many is that?"

He uses the knife to point to the various injuries as he counts them up, "Five, already? Well aren't you a lucky bastard? We're almost done."

Tim coughs as a string of bloody saliva trails down his chin.

"Don't cop out on me now, Timmy," Dean demands as he tips the chair over, watching as Tim lands on the ground hard.

Dean can tell that Tim tries to scream but the air has been knocked out of his lungs, so it comes out as a harsh wheeze instead.

"So, I don't have any salt on me," Dean starts as he takes his flask out of his back pocket and takes a quick swig, "But that's alright because I already know you're an evil son of a bitch, but I do have some Jack. Potato, potahto, right?"

Tim looks panicked, shaking his head while mouthing, "no," while Dean smirks and tips the rest of the alcohol onto Tim's bare chest. The whiskey washes away the blood and sinks into the wounds, making Tim shout and buck, trying to escape the sting. Dean watches him struggle until the burning calms to a bearable degree. Then, he grabs the back of the chair and hefts it up, "Upsy daisy."

Once Tim is upright, Dean wraps the rope that had been used to kill Sam around his neck. Tim's eyes go wide as he sees the bloody, frayed twine.

"Do you know what I want? I mean, more than to beat your ass bloody with that pipe like you did to my brother? I want you to know what it feels like to have the life choked out of you. I've been there before and let me tell you, nothing's more terrifying than not being able to feel your lungs expand, it's a lot like hell," Dean says and then grins.

Dean pulls the rope tight, constricting it around Tim's neck like a snake would its prey. Tim's eyes bulge and his face reddens as the air supply is cut off. His mouth falls open and closes again, over and over, like a fish on dry land. Dean waits patiently as Tim's eyes roll back in his head and his struggling dies down to nothing, and his chest stills with death.

Dean lets go of the rope but doesn't remove it from Tim's neck. Instead, he sits on the floor and scoots back so that he's not so close to the bodies, not caring that blood is soaking right through his jeans. Staring at what he's done, he's not sure of what to do next. But he refuses to feel guilty. The bastards deserved it and he won't feel guilty about it. He refuses.

* * *

A/N: *Nervous shifty eyes* So, what'd you think?

This might be the single most difficult piece of writing I have ever written. I fought tooth and nail with my muse who was pretty much beating me over the head, screaming that Dean would never do this (she's obsessed with keeping him in character.) Normally I would agree but Dean's been completely pushed to the edge. Combine Dean's hell mess with the apocalypse, Sam's murder, and the really crappy future he was just yanked out of, and I think that Dean could easily go off his rocker. If there's anything that I learned from '_The End'_ it's that Dean is still very much capable of being dark if the circumstances are right. He told Sam that they keep each other human and I completely agree. The whole idea behind Dean's actions was to do to Tim exactly what he did to Sam, only with Dean's spin on it. I would have had him just kill Tim, except the others played a part too and I just couldn't picture Dean not taking them out of the picture. Despite all this, he's still _Dean_ and taking human life like he did will still bring up conflicting emotions, no matter how set he is in his decisions. This is also as dark as I'm willing to make him, I like Dean all brotherly and sane :)

I know not everyone is going to agree and that is ok, just don't bash it over my head, my muse did enough of that.


	5. Gasp of Air

Warnings: Would you believe me if I said there are none for this chapter except language? Ok there's a spot of violence. But honestly, it's microscopic compared to the last chapter.

* * *

_"I pray my redeemer will come and take me from my grave."_  
-Robert Johnson

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**Chapter 5**

_Dean lets go of the rope but doesn't remove it from Tim's neck. Instead, he sits on the floor and scoots back so that he's not so close to the bodies, not caring that blood is soaking right through his jeans. Staring at what he's done, he's not sure of what to do next. But he refuses to feel guilty. The bastards deserved it and he won't feel guilty about it. He refuses._

Dean feels like he's in a trance, just staring at the thick, syrupy crimson that surrounds him like a pond. The feeling of the blood saturating his jeans is revolting; it's sticky and tepid, no longer hot but not old enough to be cold.

But he doesn't want to move. Moving means accepting that Sam's gone, knowing that there's nothing left for him to do now but build a pyre. If Dean gets up, he'll have to face burning his brother and being alone in the world, permanently. He'd rather sit on the floor forever, letting the blood dry and adhere his jeans to the concrete.

In the end, it's his hunter instincts that force him to get up. Dean's known for a long time what it feels like to be watched, to have something supernatural in the same room as you. It's like a fly buzzing by your head, like a soft consistent, annoying sound. The second Dean feels it, he reaches for the knife that he had dropped on the floor next to him. The small scrape that the blade makes against the floor comforts him as he stands, keeping his movements as controlled and as soft as he can. Instinctively, Dean's eyes immediately go to where Sam's laying. When he sees what sparked his spidey sense, Dean almost drops the knife in shock.

Lucifer's standing over Sam with one hand running through Sam's hair as the other rests between his pectoral muscle and his shoulder. Seeing Lucifer touch Sam so affectionately snaps Dean out of his astonishment, and makes anger and possessiveness strike hard. He finds himself clutching Sam's knife tighter in his hand, wishing he could sink it in Lucifer's chest and do actual damage.

Lucifer doesn't look up from Sam's shallow gray face as he says, "Hello, Dean. I must admit, I didn't think I'd be seeing you again so soon. How was your trip back home?"

"Get away from him," Dean demands fiercely, ignoring Lucifer's subtly sardonic comment.

"I know what you're thinking but you don't have to be afraid. I still need his permission, even when he's dead," Lucifer replies easily but he untangles his hand from Sam's hair and steps away, focusing his attention on Dean, "It's why I've waited so long."

Dean bounces his gaze from Sam to Lucifer, "For what?"

"To bring Sam back," Lucifer answers patiently as he leans against the table that Sam's resting on, and crosses his arms across his chest.

Dean's eyes widen and his breath catches, forming a painful lump in his chest, "What?"

Lucifer sighs in pity, "I should apologize. You've gone through so much and all along my intentions were to bring Sam back."

Emotions hit Dean hard and lightning fast, the first of which is absolute, unadulterated relief. It's so powerful that it threatens to bring him to his knees. However, it gets watered down by suspicion because even if Lucifer does bring Sam back, what's the catch? Then horror grips him like a vice. God, he just murdered four hunters, pretty much butchered one of them, and it could all be for _nothing_. Suddenly, Dean's very aware of the blood staining his hands, burning holes through his clothes, and squelching under his boots. The knife in his hand is no longer an extension of himself, but an invasion, heavy and prominent. He can feel Lucifer studying him and if it weren't for the acid pit forming in his stomach, he'd see the irony in this moment: right now, under the eyes of Lucifer, he feels like he's being judged by God.

Lucifer smiles knowingly and shifts his gaze to the carnage on the ground, "It's really kind of moving to see you getting in touch with what you left behind in hell. Felt good, didn't it?"

Dean's hands clench and the crimson slips between his fingers. He resists the overwhelming urge to wipe his hands on his jeans.

"It wasn't like that," Dean defends through gritted teeth, only wondering why he's trying to justify himself to Satan after the fact.

"I know it wasn't. I know what it's like, Dean, to kill for your brothers," a sly smile spreads across Lucifer's face, "But you couldn't have done it without hell. You wouldn't have had it in you."

The very fact that it's 'in him' at all is making him physically sick but he figures that Lucifer doesn't need to know that, if he doesn't already.

Realizing that Dean isn't going to say anything more, Lucifer turns his attention back to Sam. "Sam is strong, so much stronger than you give him credit for," Lucifer says as he tenderly trails through his hand through Sam's hair again, "He's the perfect vessel, powerful, untouchable."

Dean growls as the same possessive anger wells up inside him again, "Well, all you're ever going to get to do is window shop because he's never going to say yes to you. Now, for the last time, get your goddamned hands off my brother."

The corners of Lucifer's lips tug, "I like you, Dean."

"Yeah, you mentioned that once," Dean retorts harshly as he glares at Lucifer's hands, which haven't moved from Sam yet.

"But you know you're wrong."

Dean really doesn't want to hear this speech again. His faith and hope wavers enough on its own, he doesn't need Lucifer doing another victory dance in front of his face to help break it down even more. All he wants is for Lucifer to make good on his word, grab Sam in the fiercest hug known to man, get the hell out of dodge, and never let his brother out of his sight again. And this time, he's going to hold on to that promise.

"I've already told you, no matter what details you alter, what choices you make, things will always end up exactly as you saw them," Lucifer says and then motions to Sam's body, "Sam dying is just an unforeseen detour. He is going to say yes to me, one way or another. And you know it."

"Well if that's what helps you sleep at night," Dean says as his gaze flickers impatiently to Sam, "Bring him back."

"All in good time, Dean. We still need to have a chat, you and I, and Sam…Sam's a little busy right now any ways," Lucifer says with a small, easy smirk.

Dean's stomach rolls sickeningly and the blood slicked knife slips in his grip. "Busy." Sam's a little busy right now. In hell. OhGodOhGodOhGod, _no_.

"I know, hell's awful but Sammy here," Lucifer says cheerfully as he pats Sam's shoulder, making him jerk limply, "Has been holding pretty strong. It's been really annoying actually because as I said, I need him to say yes, even in death."

Devastation and horror quickly flips back to anger. Before he even realizes what he's doing, Dean's flipping the knife over in his hand so that he's holding on to the blade, and whipping it at Lucifer's midsection. It happens fast, like an instant reflex, and much to Dean's satisfaction, the knife hits Lucifer's rib cage with a barely audible thump. His small smirk of victory is short lived however as Lucifer jerks, and looks at the hilt of the knife in irritation.

Lucifer sighs and then proceeds to grab the knife, and with little difficulty, pulls it free with a string of blood. Lucifer sets the blade on the table next to Sam and turns his annoyed expression back to Dean.

"That wasn't very nice," Lucifer scolds mockingly, "Feel better?"

Dean glowers, trying not show the small shock of fear that hit him when he saw Lucifer hold the knife in his hands.

"I didn't think so. Anyways, where were we? Oh yes, you want Sam back," Lucifer says and tilts his head in thought, "But he's busy back in my hometown with some of my most…loyal followers, which leaves you and I to have a little talk."

"About what?" Dean demands through clenched teeth and a tear clogged throat.

Lucifer shrugs nonchalantly, "You, Sam, Michael, our happy family."

"You might as well crawl back in to that hole in hell that you slithered from or kill me, because Sam's not saying yes and neither am I, and if it's the last thing I do, I will kill you."

"Haven't we had this conversation already, Dean? You've seen what happens. Sam says yes and you?" Lucifer says and then grins sadistically as he turns his attention back to the bodies behind Dean, "I think you're already half way to what you're going to become: a vengeful, angry killer with no regard for anything or anyone, not even himself."

Dean swallows as the memories of the future replay themselves in his mind, torturing him with images of Lucifer in Sam's skin and his twin's cold eyes staring back at him. Dean shakes his head, partly in denial and partly to erase the pictures.

"Don't feel bad, Dean, it's supposed to happen this way. You couldn't have saved Sam. It's always been his destiny to free me, to become part of the most powerful force in existence. Why do you think that he never molded to your father's expectations? Why he left you so many times? He never belonged there with you," Lucifer says, sympathy and understanding rolling his words together, "And don't think that you can stop your destiny either. Michael? Michael's just like you: a single minded, over-confident, dominant warrior. Eventually, you will have to say yes to him."

Dean smirks, even though the words sting, "I know what this really is."

"And what is that?" Lucifer inquires with a small sigh.

"Jealousy," Dean states, his smirk widening, "Big brother didn't like what you were doing so he tossed you out like trash and didn't look back. Well, Sam and I have some problems but I always come back for him, _always_, which is a helluva lot more concern than Michael ever showed for you. And now that he's back on earth? He's ready to squash you like the bug you are all over again."

Lucifer's expression darkens in rage and Dean wonders if deep down he really does have a death wish. No sane human would taunt the Devil about his family problems. Dean guesses that's the thing, he's not always sane and while he is human, he's also an archangel's vessel. Speaking of…

"You can't kill me," Dean gloats with another smirk, "See, I'm kind of a big deal to the guys upstairs, and they won't let you gank me. So since Sam's never going to say "yes" to you, dead or alive, why don't you shove this game you're playing where the sun don't shine and bring my brother back. Now."

Lucifer is at his throat, literally, in seconds, his hand squeezing inhumanly tight, "Just because I can't kill you, doesn't mean I can't harm you, significantly. Sam's life is in my hands and if I want, I can keep him in hell for years, Dean, for eternity."

Fear runs through Dean and strikes him deep, but not because his throat is clamped shut or because his lungs are barely expanding, but because the idea of Sam being in hell for eternity is enough to stop his heart.

"But I won't," Lucifer says, his calm, slightly cheery expose back in place, "Because he needs to be on earth in order for me to take his form."

Lucifer releases Dean's throat and steps back, returning to his place by Sam. Dean rubs lightly at his bruising throat, wincing as air drags over the irritation when he breathes.

"Then why keep him in hell at all?" Dean questions when he feels like he can talk without squeaking.

Lucifer shrugs, "He was going there anyways, might as well make it productive. I don't need to force him, Dean. I already know what his answer will eventually be, all I need to do is wait."

"You son of a bitch," Dean growls, "You're keeping him there just for kicks?"

"You were putting on quite the show, I didn't want to miss it," Lucifer says with a smile.

"Well, the show's over so get to the resurrecting," Dean demands as impatience, desperation and that constant undercurrent of fear festers in his heart and swirls through his veins.

He's getting scared and starting to panic. A constant mantra of "bring him back, bring him back now" is going through his head, and the longer that Lucifer takes, the more Dean's convinced that the rogue angel is just yanking his chain.

Suddenly, Dean's distracted by the sound of wings whooshing by his head. He immediately feels the heavy, but familiar presence of Castiel. He won't admit it out loud but he's relieved that he's not alone with Satan any more.

"What are you doing here, Cas?" Dean asks as he hesitantly takes his attention off of Lucifer.

Castiel ignores him as he glares fiercely at Lucifer, "You breached the rules when you took Sam Winchester from judgment. Release him from hell. Now."

"Castiel, am I right? I must admit that your dedication to the Winchester brothers is inspiring but you're hardly in a place to give me commands, brother. We're one in the same. And if I so wish, I could kill you without a thought. You know this."

Dean swallows and looks at Castiel, trying to gauge what the angel is thinking. As usual, Castiel is giving away the emotions of a rock, so Dean has no idea if the comment rattled him or not. It rattled Dean. He's well aware that Cas is on heaven's hit list and that Lucifer could collect bounty without a thought, just like he threatened.

"You are no brother of mine. Release him or the archangels will release him for you. We both know you don't want that to happen," Castiel orders, "I will not ask again."

Dean can feel the air crackle between the ethereal siblings. He wonders if it's from the tension or if there's something else brewing. Instinctively, Dean moves to put some more space between the three of them, making sure that he's out of the way in case one of them decides to charge.

Finally, Lucifer cracks a half smile, "Loyalty. I can appreciate that."

Castiel doesn't respond, just glares with warning. Lucifer winks at him before turning his attention back to Dean.

"I keep my promises, Dean. _All_ of them," He says and then smiles lazily, even though something sinister is burning behind his eyes, "I'll see you soon."

Lucifer disappears and from the table, Sam takes a huge, lung rattling breath.


	6. Interlude

Warnings: Angst and whumpage of the hell variety, including mild (more like implied) torture.

**Interlude – Sam**

"_When God is gone and the devil takes hold, who'll have mercy on your soul?"  
-Jen Titus, 'O Death'_

His memories are fuzzy, coming and going, like water rushing the beach shoreline. The pictures in his head come in flashes but he can't put them in order. He doesn't know if what he's seeing happened yesterday or ten years ago. It doesn't help that he has no idea how long he's been here, if it's been an hour or a year.

What he does know for sure is that he's in agony, he wants his big brother, and he's in hell.

Hell is everything he expected but at the same time it's so much more, so much _worse. _He didn't expect it to have levels. He thought that the pit was just the pit, but it has a system of steps, each one getting more macabre and painful as you get deeper. If hell was a hospital, with a parking lot, a waiting room, an examination room, and the surgery unit, Sam would guess that he's in the waiting room, trembling with nerves as he waits for examination.

It's an endless plane of nothing but thick metal ropes and hooks, all dark and bloody, suspended over a huge demon lightning storm. His arms are over his head, connected by a single hook piercing through both of his wrists, in one side and out the other. There are two more in each thigh, leaving all the weight of his torso to rest between the unbearable pain in his wrists and legs. The wind of the angry storm below him rocks his body, pulling on the hooks in his flesh, and grating against his bones. He grits his teeth tight enough to hurt, his pride unwilling to give them the satisfaction of hearing him scream yet. Lightning hits the web of metal, sending a strong surge of electricity into his wounds, through his body. He grunts, his jaw clamps tighter, and he swears he hears something pop. The electric current is over in seconds even though it feels like it lasts forever. Tears sting his eyes as he tries to maneuver his jaw and even though it hurts, he manages to pry his mouth open.

Just as his jaw releases, the hooks extract themselves from Sam's limbs, sending burning shots of pain all through his body. He can't resist crying out against the feel of the metal relinquishing its grip on him, feeling anger and shame as he breaks his own promise not to make a sound. The tips of the hooks pull out of his body and suddenly he's falling, straight through the lightning storm. There's no pain as much as there is fear as he tumbles through nothingness, waiting to hit the bottom and face whatever's next.

He does hit, eventually. He crashes into what feels like a floor made out of pumice, and it's hot, like it's been sitting out in the sun on a summer day. The rough texture scrapes the top layer of skin off his palms and other random places on his body where flesh is visible. He shifts, preparing to stand, but before he can push himself up, hands grab his arms and yank him to his feet. Sam grunts in surprise and then again in pain as he's slammed onto a wooden table. Realization hits him and panic takes over as his arms and legs are pulled spread eagle and then restrained. He's on the rack, oh God, it's starting.

But he's not going to break. He's going to be strong like his dad was, like Dean was.

A hand reaches down to caress his face and he flinches away. The demon laughs at his reaction. It's dark enough to keep his tormentors veiled but light enough that Sam can see their outlines, and a few shadows of their features.

"Sammy Winchester. We've been itching to get our hands on you. Winchesters are famous down here, you know? Your daddy set the record. 100 years and he still said no. It's impressive, I'll admit. Your brother couldn't break it, though, he wasn't strong enough," the demon says and Sam can feel him lean in close, breath heating up his ear, "Are you, Sam?"

He barely hears the snick of the knife over the pounding of his own heart, but it's there all the same. The sound both threatens and challenges him.

Stay strong. Don't break, don't break, _don't break_.

He feels the first bite of the blade and he chews the inside of his cheek to keep silent. Liquid warmth slides down his bare chest and Sam swallows, wondering how Dean ever got the strength to keep saying no, and praying that he'll be able to do the same.

_Make Dean proud._

The razor lifts and the demons quips, "I almost forgot. Since we're going to be spending so much time together, I see it only proper that you know my name. I'm Nix, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance," Nix ends his little speech with a sarcastic bow, right before he digs the blade in again.

It doesn't take long for Sam to break his own promise again, and screams.

* * *

"You can say "yes" here, Sam. You can say yes and it'll all be over. Just let him in."

His deal is different from everyone else's. With everyone else, "yes" will get the torturing to stop as long as you agree to start it. For Sam, saying "yes" will just start a different kind of torture, being Lucifer's vessel. Well, Sam can't do anything about being tortured in hell but he can do something about being a vessel.

"No."

"Suit yourself."

* * *

Sam doesn't know how long it's been; days, weeks, months? It all smudges together in a mess of pain and screaming, and always saying "no" in the end. Nix gets more creative with every passing session, tormenting and destroying Sam in ways he didn't even think were possible. It makes him think of Dean, of how foolish Sam was to ever think that his older brother was weak. He is more than ashamed knowing that he said it to Dean's face when he had no comprehension of just what hell was. Dean did this for 30 years before he caved. Sam wonders if he can last half as long.

* * *

He screams for Dean once, while Nix is carving him up like a turkey that needs to be stuffed. There has never been a time in his life when Sam screamed for his brother, and Dean didn't come. Once, just this once, Sam gets desperate enough to try to yell between the boundary of hell and earth to see if it will still work.

Nix cackles.

Dean doesn't come.

* * *

Time passes. Nix tells him it's been months, years, hours; his answer changes all the time, so Sam doesn't know. He just knows that time passes. They bring in a few of the souls that Dean tortured while he was here. They talk to him. They tell him all the horrible things that Dean did to them as if it'll make Sam love his brother less. All it does is make him miss his sibling more than ever, and reminds him of why he has to keep saying "no."

If Sam says yes then Dean will have to too. Sam would rather spend eternity in hell. He might even deserve to.

* * *

He doesn't know how it happens. God's wish? Highly unlikely. Castiel? Not enough power anymore. Dean? Sam will kill him if he sacrificed himself again. Sam doesn't know how it happens, but he gets yanked back to earth. He crashes to the surface so hard that air is stolen from his lungs just as it's being pushed back in. It's worth it though, to inhale pure oxygen that isn't tainted with sulfur and smoke. Next to him, behind him, he can feel a presence and knows without thinking that it's Dean. Warmth flows into his soul, comforting him for the first time in what feels like forever.

Dean. He's home.


	7. Burn, Burn

**Warnings**: Angsty-schmoop and hugging. Both Sam and Dean's POVs are included.

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"_Makes you feel more alive, being in the presence of death."  
- True Blood_

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**Chapter 7**

**Sam.**

Sam's instantly aware of the fact that his lungs won't work. The lack of air makes him panic and causes his heart to jackhammer behind his ribs. It feels like trying to cough up water after nearly drowning. It feels like trying to breathe through hot smoke. It feels like dying all over again. He remembers what it felt like to be unable breathe, to have that primal need taken away. Ironically, he doesn't remember breathing much in hell. He knows that he did though because you can't scream without breathing, and Sam did a lot of screaming while he was in the pit.

Sam's so concentrated on the fact that he can't breathe that he doesn't immediately notice the hand on his chest, or the other one gripping his shoulder. He can't hear anything beyond his own hacking, but he knows from the weight of the hand and from the mere presence that it's Dean. Sam forces his eyes open, ignoring the way they sting and fill with tears. Dean is the first thing he sees. Sam's used to this. For as long as he can remember, Dean's always been the first person he's seen after waking up from some horrible injury, or from unconsciousness. What he's not used to seeing when he wakes up is Dean crying, or covered in blood, or looking so pale that Sam immediately concludes that the blood is Dean's. The idea that Dean is injured does nothing to calm his panic. Dean must notice his spike in anxiety because the worried expression on his face deepens, and he starts speaking. Sam can barely hear him over the roar in his own head. Briefly, Sam wonders if he's deaf. It'd explain why Dean's lips are moving but Sam isn't hearing anything. Hell was loud. More than once, he had wondered if his ears were going to pop from the sound of all the screaming, and the industrialized noises that never ended. That's the thing about hell, nothing there ever ends. More than the pain and the hopelessness, Sam thinks that the infinity is what really makes hell unbearable.

"…Sam!"

He's not sure why but Dean's suddenly hauling him upwards, manhandling him until his back is pressed against Dean's chest. Sam's head automatically falls back onto his brother's shoulder. The weight of his skull feels more like a bowling ball instead of an actual head. Above him the bleak ceiling of the factory blurs and a weightless sensation settles into his limbs. Sam recognizes this from death, it's how he felt when the initial pain of suffocation passed and the calm took over.

"Easy, in and out, Sammy."

Dean's voice calms the ceiling, allowing a ray of clarity to pierce through his disorientation. Slowly, like a dull heat, he can feel his chest burn as his lungs work furiously to bring in oxygen. Dean's hand presses against his ribs, keeping his chest tight with Sam's back.

"Breathe, Sammy. It's only a panic attack, man, just breathe with me. Come on," Dean half pleads into Sam's ear, "Just breathe like me."

It goes on like that for a moment, with Dean trying to coach Sam to match his breathing, and Sam trying to get his brain to catch up. The tightness in his ribcage lessens after a few minutes and soon, he can feel his chest rise and fall in time with Dean's breaths. He assumes Dean can feel the calm too because he helps Sam turn around so that they're face to face. Dean still looks awful; pale, and stained with tears and blood.

"You're bleeding," Sam states. His voice makes it sound like he had gargled glass at some point, but the concern is there all the same.

Dean huffs a small laugh that sounds suspiciously like a sob before shaking his head, "It's not mine."

**Dean.**

Sam takes that one deep, breath, and that's it. Undiluted panic makes Dean's heart literally freeze for a beat or two as he gapes in horror at Sam's chest. Then, he jumps into action, closing the short distance between he and Sam in seconds, pushing past Castiel as if he isn't even there. Dean's hands immediately reach out for Sam and as it turns out, he is breathing, just not very well.

"Sammy? Sam!" Dean shouts as his hands fist Sam's shirt. Dean fights the urge to shake him to get a response; he knows that shaking will do nothing to help the situation.

Sam looks like a fish on dry land, wheezing and struggling as he tries to take in oxygen. It's one of the scariest things Dean's ever seen next to watching Sam die, and watching Sam have a seizure.

Sam's eyes are shut tight, but Dean can see little beaded tears gathering under his eyelids. Sam tries to curl in on himself, probably an attempt to relieve the pain in his chest, but Dean smooths him back out.

"Easy, Sam, come on. Sammy? It's over now, just calm down, little brother," Dean says. He tries to keep his cool, hoping that if he doesn't lose his head, then Sam will settle. It doesn't work. He isn't even sure if Sam's hearing him. If it's possible, Dean panics a little more.

"Come on, come on, Sam!" Dean yells. His hands grip in Sam's shirt a little tighter as he unconsciously tries to ground them both.

Sam's eyes snap open and Dean can't help but start. He's relieved at the sight of Sam's hazel eyes, but he quickly realizes that even though Sam's eyes are open, he's still not breathing correctly. His breaths are coming in short gasps and wheezes, and sweat is budding around his hairline and across his lip. Sam's panicking. That's when it hits Dean and he's never felt like more of an idiot. Panic attack. Immediately, Dean pulls Sam up by the shirt, maneuvering him until they are back-to-chest. Now that he knows what's wrong, he's going to do what he does best: fix it.

Sam's head falls back onto his shoulder, like he just doesn't have the strength to keep it up. Dean immediately rests his head lightly against the side of Sam's, "Easy, in and out, Sammy."

It's actually scarier this way; being able to feel Sam's entire ribcage stutter with every failed intake and expel of air. He's actually afraid to hold on too tight in case he restricts Sam's lungs even more.

"Breathe, Sam. It's only a panic attack, man, just breathe with me. Come on, just breathe like me."

And finally, he does. Christ, it feels like it takes a lifetime, but Sam finally breathes. Slowly, Dean turns Sam back around. Sam's eyes are a bit wide, his skin a bit flushed and still covered in a thin film of sweat, but he's alive. He's breathing, and he's alive.

"You're bleeding."

Sam sounds awful; a lot like Dean did when he first came back from hell, and it doesn't help that Sam just got over a panic attack. But Dean doesn't care. Sam's alive, and more than that, he's alive and concerned because he thinks Dean's _bleeding_. Dean doesn't know if he should be horrified, touched, or ashamed. Now that he's really looking, Dean can see the blood that he got all over Sam when he was trying to calm him down. There are bright red stains all over his clothes, along with a few smears on his skin. Suddenly Dean wonders if he's any better than Tim, spilling blood all in the name of vengeance, and getting it on his little brother.

"It's not mine," Dean finally replies, letting out a choked sound that he will never admit to emitting. Then he hugs Sam, hugs him like he should've been able to when Sam took that first breath. He tucks Sam's head under his chin, ignores the blood and sulfur that he can briefly smell on Sam's hair, and just holds on.

"I'm sorry, Sammy." He needs to say it before Sam sees, before Sam realizes where the blood came from and what Dean has done. If he doesn't say it now, Sam might not give him the chance to say it later, "I'm so damn sorry." As Sam clings right back, Dean can feel him frown.

Dean forces himself to let go of Sam. He tells himself that he needs to man up; there are things he has to face, and a little brother he needs to look after. Sam looks confused and freaked out as he rakes his eyes over Dean, and Dean knows he's looking for cuts or stab wounds. Dean also knows he's not going to find any.

"Dean, what's going on? What happened?" Sam half demands, his throat still struggling to force out words.

Dean doesn't have to answer because in that split second, Sam glances to his right, and freezes.

**Sam.**

At first, Sam thinks he's having some kind of post-hell flashback, because there's just so much blood it's almost inconceivable. Then he recognizes the faces and realizes that this isn't some sort of messed up image that his brain cooked up, it's real. It's Tim, and Mick, and the other hunters who played a small part in Sam's murder. It's real, and they're dead, and there's so. much. blood.

Sam forces his eyes away from the scene to look back at Dean, who's also staring at the small massacre. Dean must feel his stare, because he turns back to meet Sam's gaze.

"Dean?" Sam questions, searching his brother's face for answers, for some sort of sign that he wasn't a part of whatever happened ten feet away.

But Sam knows he was. Dean has that look on his face, the same exact one he had when Sam demanded to know about his hell deal. It's the look that's begging Sam not to hate him for what he felt like he had to do.

"Oh my God," Sam breathes when Dean doesn't answer, "Dean…what'd you do?"

Dean swallows hard as his eyes glaze over. Sam can see the apology painted all over his brother as if the word was actually stamped on his forehead, but there's not a single trace of regret. Like with his deal, Dean's not sorry for doing it, he's just sorry for whatever pain it might cause Sam.

"I had to, Sammy," Dean half whispers and then shakes his head, "Christ, Sam, they _murdered_ you! You think I could just let something like that go?"

"So you call the cops, Dean! You don't go on a shooting spree!" Sam argues and then starts coughing when he raises his voice to high, irritating his unused vocal cords.

Dean puts his hand on Sam's back until the coughing stops and Sam's in an upright position again.

"Let's just…let's get out of here, ok? We can deal with it later, I promise, but for now let's just go."

Sam stares at him for a second before nodding.

**Dean.**

Dean sighs in relief, feeling his shoulder sag. He'd be happy never to see the state of Oklahoma again, but for now, he just wants to grab Sam and get out of the warehouse.

"Good," Dean says and then eyes Sam, "Come on, put your arm over my shoulder."

Sam rolls his eyes as Dean grabs hold of his arm, slinging it behind his head, "You know, I can walk."

"Humor me," Dean replies as they slowly make their way out of the warehouse, giving the blood pool on the floor a wide berth.

When they get outside, they have no choice but to use the truck that Dean stole earlier. They have no other means of transportation. He watches Sam slide into the passenger side and decides that between the blood and prints, they'll probably need to destroy the truck. First, he has something else he needs to destroy.

"Sit tight, I need to..." Dean pauses as he looks for the words, "I need to take care of the warehouse."

Sam looks at him and Dean can tell that he sees right through him, but there's nothing Dean can do about that.

"I can go with you," Sam half offers, half states.

It's tempting, because, God, Dean's not ready to leave him alone yet, but he can't ask Sam to do this with him. He doesn't need to see it again, and this is Dean's mess, not Sam's.

"No, just, wait here a minute, ok?" Dean says and puts as much gratefulness into his voice as possible.

"Sure."

Dean hesitantly moves away from the cab of the truck to the back end, where he has multiple canisters of gas and salt waiting for him.

He's not sure when it happened, but at some point, Castiel vacated the warehouse. Dean takes it for the sign that it is.

He makes sure to soak the blood and bodies first, watching as the oily fuel mixes with the crimson on the floor. Then he gets the rest of the room, going around the perimeter, and pouring gas over the table that had once acted as Sam's resting place. Dean's going to make sure that the place goes up like a dry Christmas tree in a bonfire.

Once the place is covered in gasoline and salt, Dean stands in the doorway, strikes a match, and tosses it. With a violent 'whoosh' the gas catches. Dean sticks around long enough to watch the fire chase the gas pathways to the center, until the dead hunters are consumed in flames.


	8. Breaking the Skyline

Beware of: Language, angst, schmoop, and ellipse abuse.

* * *

"_We save our lives in such unlikely ways."  
-Neil Gaiman_

_

* * *

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**Chapter 8**

They're two hours away from Kansas city and the silence filling the truck cab is unnerving, tense. Dean can feel questions and thoughts bouncing around in his head like ping pong balls – he wonders if Sam's feeling the same thing. Then he wonders if Sam's feeling anything at all or if his head is still in hell, or if Sam hates him, or if he's just happy to be out. Then Dean wonders how they're going to soldier on. He wonders what in the hell they're supposed to do now, with the broken bond between them, hell, and the apocalypse riding on their coattails. And Christ, he wishes Sam would just _say_ something so he could at least get an idea...

"How long was I dead?"

Dean physically jumps and then shifts in his seat, trying to mask his surprise. He suddenly finds this moment ironic, because now that he's heard Sam's question, he wishes Sam had never opened his mouth.

"Thirteen hours, give or take a few." He says his words carefully, keeping his voice at an even tenor to camouflage his residual anguish and fear.

A beat passes, and then another one.

"A week in hell," Sam says and nods slowly, Dean can see it from the corner of his eye, "Felt like a lot longer. Felt like I was there for months."

Dean doesn't say anything because he _knows_, and really, there isn't anything he can say other than "I know." But Sam already knows that.

"How'd you even find me?"

Dean smirks humorlessly, "Funny story, that."

Then he tells Sam. He tells him about Zachariah's dick move and the future, about Castiel, the virus, and about his bat shit insane doppelganger. Then he tells him about Lucifer.

"Oh."

"Oh?" Dean repeats dumbly, altering his attention between Sam and the road, "I just told you that we're heading for a shit storm in five years, in which Lucifer wears you to the prom, and all you have to say is 'oh?'"

Something dark and desolate flashes across Sam's face, but it's gone before Dean can stare into it. He's glad he doesn't get the chance to read into it because even that quick flash gave him shivers.

"I didn't say yes in hell. I'm not saying yes on earth," Sam finally says with a half shrug, his voice robotic and factual, like he's rattling off trivia about the presidents or something.

He wonders if this is what it's going to be like from now on, with Sam saying things that Dean doesn't have a response to, or things that he feels like he has to apologize for.

Then Sam inhales and it shudders, like he's trying to hold back tears. Dean's attention is immediately centered on his brother again.

"Do you-"Sam starts and then exhales fully, regaining composure, "Do you want to split up again? When we get to Kansas City?"

Dean has to remind himself to breathe and to pay attention to the fricken road, because Sam just came back from the dead, and the last thing they need is a car crash. He forgot to tell Sam that he wants them to hunt together again. By the time he'd realized that's what he wanted, Sam had already been dead. Then the vital piece of information got lost somewhere between revenge and blood.

"_We should just pick a hemisphere…stay away from each other, for good."  
_

_"We're better off apart."_

"_Dean, don't do this."_

"_Bye, Sam."_

"No, we're not splitting up. Not now, not ever again," Dean half growls.

From his peripheral vision, Dean can see Sam frown and stare. He can literally feel Sam's reluctance, which is only confirmed when Sam says, "Dean, if this is a guilt thing…"

"No," Dean protests fiercely, his head already shaking, "It's not about that. God knows I have enough of it, but that's not it. I just…I was wrong, Sammy. We never should've split up and it's not because of what happened to you."

Sam stares some more, Dean can feel it on the side of his face. Then he sighs, and knows that Sam will never be satisfied with some half-assed answer. Never has been, never will be.

"Look, it took a DeLorean trip for me to remember it, but we're not better off apart, never have been. Me n' you…we're all we have. If this is the end of the world, we should go down fighting it together, the way it's always been," Dean pauses and glances over at Sam, who's stayed silent the whole time, "I was getting ready to tell you that when Cas told me what happened. I shouldn't have said what I said to you on the phone. I'm sorry."

A moment passes by, and then another, before Sam quietly responds, "Thank you."

* * *

Closer to Kansas City, they ditch the truck and torch it in an empty field. Dean worries that the fire and the heat will send Sam into another post-hell anxiety attack, but Sam just stands there with him, and watches. They'll have to leave soon. Once the fire burns hot enough and eats through enough metal, the truck will explode, and Dean plans on being long gone before that happens. Explosions tend to lead to hospitals and cops, both of which Dean does not feel like dealing with.

But for the moment, they just watch it burn.

The fire roars. Dean can feel the heat of it on his face, it's almost uncomfortable. The frame is hidden behind a wall of blazing orange, and from inside, the metal and rust twists and pops from the temperature. Smoke billows from the orange, twisting upwards, almost as black as the sky. That's what gasoline does, it burns black and orange, sometimes red. Dean knows, he's started a lot of fires over the years.

Despite the toxicity of the scene, the fumes and the smoke that Dean knows can't be good for the environment, this feels right. That damn rust bucket is the last piece of the puzzle, the last physical shred of evidence that knows that Sam died, and that Dean killed. It isn't much, but torching it seems like a good place to start picking up the pieces, and gluing them back together.

The fire spreads until the truck is no longer visible. Next to him Sam shifts, brushing their elbows against each other, "We should leave."

"Yeah."

They start walking. The road is dirt and empty, the only light they have is from the blaze that they're getting further from, and the stars. When they're a ways down the road, far enough that they can't see the glow from the fire anymore, they hear the truck explode. They don't say anything. They don't even blink.

* * *

When they finally get to Kansas City and back to the motel that Dean was yanked out of, morning is breaking the skyline.

…And the Impala has three parking tickets on the windshield.

"Son of a bitch," Dean mutters as he yanks the slips of paper off the windshield, "Awh, man, this sucks. This is gonna be like, eighty bucks…"

Dean pauses as he catches sight of Sam. Sam's standing at the passenger side, his big hand is resting on top of the car. His eyes are squinty, and undeniably wet and bright. Dean swallows the lump that's formed high in his throat.

"Sam?"

Sam blinks like he's coming out of a trance, and runs his hand down the side of the car until it rests on the door handle. He shrugs, "Just never thought I'd see her again."

It gets harder to swallow the lump that is now golf ball size. Dean wonders how he's even breathing.

Sam frowns, scrunches his nose as he looks at the tickets in Dean's hand, "You're lucky you didn't get towed."

Then he gets in the car, leaving Dean blinking on the sidewalk.

* * *

The sun's high in the sky, burning bright and warm, so they close the shades after they salt the entrances. The room glows a weird green from the olive curtains and the daylight; a single ray of bright light breaks across the floor from a gap in the curtains. When Dean walks and displaces the stillness, he can see dust particles whirl in the dull light. Sam's sitting on the bed furthest from the door. His clothes are still blood stained and rumpled, his hair matted and skin shallow. Dean knows he doesn't look any better himself, worse, even. When he'd paid for the room the clerk had looked at him with wide, horrified eyes. Dean doesn't blame him, considering all the blood.

_"Theater production," _Dean had said, hoping that the guy wouldn't call the cops_, "Damn syrup is impossible to get out."_

The room's so quiet that Dean can hear Sam breathe. After Cold Oak, he remembers being more attuned to Sam's breathing than ever. He felt like he could hear his sibling take in and expel air even in the loudest of environments. He wonders if it'll be like that this time too. Dean's gut clenches. There never should've been a "this time."

"We need clothes," Dean suddenly murmurs into the silence.

"I guess," Sam responds before they fall back into stillness again.

Dean sighs and sinks onto the bed opposite of Sam. They're so close that their knees almost touch across the space.

"It's weird, right?" Sam asks, staring at nothing in particular.

"What is?"

"We weren't talking. Probably weren't going to see each other again..."

Dean's breath hitches, he can feel panic clawing inside of his chest, threatening to make him bleed and hurt.

_"I haven't seen Sam in, hell, five years."_  
_"We never tried to look for him?"_  
_"We had other people to worry about."_

"...But we still ended up four hours away from each other. Garber and Kansas City are basically a stone's throw away."

"I guess," Dean replies, and then cringes when his voice comes out rough.

Sam tilts his head in question but doesn't say anything.

Dean stares, let's his gaze sweep over Sam, calculating, remembering. There isn't a mark on him and Dean's grateful for that. He doesn't know if he could stare at the bruises or the scars every day for who knows how long, and not feel sick to his stomach. Dean's never going to be able to get that picture out of his head; Sam hanging from the ceiling, covered in blood and bruises, skin tinted blue. It's never going to go away. It's going to be tucked in with his nightmares from hell, a stain he can never scrub out, a piece of his soul that he can never get back. Dean's been through a lot of pain, both physical and emotional, but nothing compared to seeing Sam like that.

"You're staring at me."

Dean blinks as his face colors slightly, "Yeah, sorry."

Sam's look softens from amusement to understanding, "Dude, I get it. I went through it too, remember?"

He'd rather not, but yeah, Dean remembers. Even with all the shit that was going on with his brother and Ruby, Sam still went through the disbelief stage. He still had the moments where he was Dean's shadow and magnet, when he did nothing but stare until Dean said something.

This time is different though. This time is _so_ different.

Dean wonders what would've happened if Lucifer hadn't brought Sam back. Would he have tried to save the world? Would he have let it rot? Said "yes" to Michael? He wouldn't have been the same man, that he knows for sure. Even if he hadn't killed, he would've been short a little brother. He's already seen what that leads to.

"You're doing it again," Sam says with a tired smile on his face.

This time, Dean doesn't respond, just offers a small, equally exhausted smile back.

"I get it, you know."

Dean's eyes snap to Sam's, and he immediately knows that they aren't talking about staring any more.

"Sam…"

"You promised we'd deal with it later."

Sighing, Dean nods. Now is not the time to be breaking promises, no matter how much he might want to, just to avoid this conversation.

"I want to be mad about it, be…something, but I get it, Dean. I do. I know revenge better than anyone," Sam says as he holds Dean's gaze, "I know what you're thinking, and I'm not...I'm not horrified, or disgusted by what you did. I would've done it, too."

Dean huffs humorlessly, "What I'm thinking. What I'm thinking is those sons of bitches killed you in cold blood, and I turned around, and served it right back to them. I want to regret it but I can't because when I think of you…the way you were, I lose it, man. I _lost_ it."

Sam swallows and nods, as he looks down at his hands. There's still blood clinging to his cuticles.

"You remember when you said that it scared you, the things you were willing to do for your family?" Sam asks, "It still scare you?"

Dean swallows, "Yeah. Yeah, it does."

"Me too. I'm not saying it's right cause I think we both know it's not, but…as long as you're still scared, you're not like them. You're not like Tim."

Dean doesn't know if he should hug his brother or cry. Right now, at this moment, he can't remember why they split ways. He can't figure out why things went so wrong or why he even cared in the first place, because this is his brother. This, right here, is the person he practically raised and watched grow. This is the brother he went to hell for.

But he doesn't hug him or cry (he swears it's just dust in his eyes) he just smiles, "You've used up your chick flick quota for the year, dude."

Sam smiles back, a full dimpled one, because he knows when Dean's saying "thank you" and all the other things that Dean rarely says out loud. This is one of those times.


	9. Memories

Warnings: Here be **hell PTSD**, **torture**, language, and the ever present angst.

* * *

"_We've come too far to have to give it all up now."  
Brand New – 'Untitled 2'_

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* * *

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**Chapter 9**

Dean herds Sam into the bathroom. They're both filthy, covered in substances that have too many memories attached to them, but Dean wants Sam to take the first shower. Sam plops down on the toilet seat while Dean turns the knob on the water faucet.

Dean glances at him as he sticks his hand under the running water, "You gonna be ok?"

A crease appears between Sam's eyebrows as he frowns. He thinks the sentence over, trying to decide if Dean's asking if he's going to pass out in the shower, or if he's going to have some sort of break down any time soon.

"Yeah," Sam answers, figuring it's a suitable response for both scenarios.

Dean nods, "You can borrow some stuff until we re-stock. We'll hit Wal-Mart tomorrow or something. You still have clothes at Bobby's, right?"

It's Sam's turn to nod.

"Good. Ok," Dean replies, sounding relieved now that he has some sort of grasp on the situation, a plan, no matter how small it is, "Yell if you need anything."

"I burned all my IDs," Sam says softly before Dean can leave.

Dean turns back around and watches him for a moment. He can't decide if Sam's just stating a piece of information or if he's apologizing for torching that part of his life. Not that it would matter, because Dean was already aware that Sam was taking himself out of hunting, there's no reason for Sam to say sorry for it.

Dean finally shrugs, "S'ok, we'll make you new ones."

Sam flashes a quick, grateful smile and then stands from the toilet seat.

"I'm just gonna grab some stuff from the car," Dean comments as he makes his exit, "Don't use up all the hot water."

The door shuts, leaving Sam in the bathroom with the water running.

-0-

When Sam gets out of the shower, Dean gathers up the dirty, bloody clothes from the bathroom floor, and shoves them into a trash bag. Then, once Dean's showered too, he adds his clothes to the bunch. He then ties the bag up and shoves it into a corner of the room with a disgusted look.

"Next deserted place we find we're burnin' that crap," Dean growls as he glares at the glossy, black bag, "Might add some salt too. Last thing we need is one of those assholes coming back as a spook and gunnin' for us. And you know it would happen too, with our luck…"

Dean trails off as he realizes that Sam is out cold, sleeping on top of the covers in the sweats he's borrowing from Dean. The pants are just on this side of too short and the tee shirt is too tight, but he's clean, and that's all that either of them really cares about.

Sam's soft puffs of air disturb some hair that's fallen in his face. Dean smiles fondly, feeling another wave of pure relief and gratitude spiral through him. Six hours ago, he'd thought that Sam was gone forever, and now he's watching his kid brother sleep, like none of it had ever happened. And if Dean has anything to say about, it's never going to happen again. Not ever. Sam's going to die old and happy, and after Dean does. That is, if they manage to stop the apocalypse, which isn't looking very promising right now. ..

A sudden, semi-familiar weight clamps down on his shoulder. Dean immediately spins, his right arm up in defense while his left hand grabs the wrist to whoever's hand is on his shoulder. Once Dean sees who got the drop on him, he relaxes and glowers.

"Damnit, Cas, I've _told_ you…"

Dean pauses, glancing back at his sleeping sibling. He pushes past Castiel and heads for the motel door, knowing that the angel will follow. Once they are outside, Dean starts again.

"I've told you not to do that. Make some fricken noise or something."

Castiel tilts his head slightly, "My apologies. Next time I'll…make some noise."

"Good," Dean says and then rubs his hand down the back of his neck, "So, uh, what's with the late night visit? It's not doomsday stuff, right? Cause I gotta tell you, your timing really sucks."

"No, it's not doomsday stuff," Castiel responds.

Dean looks at him expectantly, "So, it's what?"

"How is Sam?"

Dean blinks and his look softens as he glances at the door to their motel room, "Ok, I think. He hasn't said much. I think he's still workin' through a lot of it. I'm not sure how much he remembers."

"How much did _you_ remember?" Castiel asks, leaving the question hanging.

"All of it," Dean says and then shrugs, "At first it was just the big picture. But it didn't take long for it all to come back. I'm just glad Sam wasn't there long enough to get the full tour."

"He was fortunate," Castiel agrees.

"Hey, Cas? What you said to Lucifer, about Sam being taken from judgment…what's that about?"

Castiel sighs and sits on a bench that's near the vending machine, "Before souls go to heaven or hell they go through judgment. Every religion has some version of it but it's all the same thing. In judgment the fates decide if the soul is worthy of heaven or if it should be condemned it hell."

Dean frowns and shifts his eyes, "I've died a few times, why don't I remember doing this?"

"No one remembers it, it's over in microseconds," Castiel replies, "But everyone goes through it."

"And Lucifer didn't let Sam get judged? He just nabbed him and tossed him in the pit? How is that even possible?" Dean demands, feeling new anger wash over him as he thinks of Lucifer purposefully putting his brother in hell, just for kicks.

"Archangels have the power to override judgment if that is their orders. It's rare but it happens."

Dean resists the urge to punch the vending machine in rage, "I can't wait to gank that son of a bitch."

Castiel stares at him, calculating, like he's searching for something.

"What?" Dean demands as he shifts uncomfortably.

"You killed those men."

Dean swallows but doesn't back down, just stares right back, "I did."

"You'll go back to hell."

A shrug, "Maybe."

Castiel squints, "You don't care?"

Oh Dean cares, he cares a lot. Hell is the last place he ever wants to revisit, but, he cares about Sam more. Always has, always will.

"Who knows, maybe another geek angel in a trench coat will yank me back out."

"It's not likely," Castiel replies.

Dean snorts, "Would it kill you to lie every once in a while?"

From inside the motel room, there's a short shout and then a series of thumps. Dean's moving before his brain can even finish sending the message, "Sam!"

-0-

The light in hell is not really light at all, it's more like a candle glow, just enough to reflect off of all the torture devices. Sam can't make out much in the near darkness, just general shapes and angles. He thinks that makes it worse. He's drenched in sweat but he's not sure if it's from the tacky heat of hell or the agony that's thrumming through his body like a deep drum. The pain never leaves, not ever. Not when Nix stops to taunt him, not even when his body magically sews itself up and seals all the wounds. Something always hurts.

Nix laughs low in his throat, sending a Pavlov shiver down Sam's spine, "let's start this again, shall we Sammy?"

Sam tenses up immediately, mentally begging for it all to stop, for it all to go away. Out loud, Sam says nothing. He won't give Nix the satisfaction until he has absolutely no choice.

"All you Winchesters are the same in the pit," Nix says as he twirls the slim blade in his hand, "All bravado and insults but when the fun starts, you all scream like the rest of them."

Nix does this a lot; brings up his family, especially Dean. It hurts as much as the physical pain and Nix knows it.

"Particularly Dean," Nix says with a perverse grin, "He screamed loud, louder than you."

Sam doesn't see it coming, isn't paying attention to the way the light glints on the blade as it swiftly enters his abdomen. The weapon twists; he can feel it tear at his skin, igniting his frayed nerves. The shout that erupts from his chest is unstoppable as he feels his life force spill from the wound and pool under the small of his back.

Nix hums appreciatively, "Definitely louder than you."

The blade slides free but the pain doesn't dissipate.

"The only difference is, both of them sacrificed themselves to be here," Nix continues as he circles the rack, eying Sam as he searches for the next spot to bury the razor, "But not you. You earned your stripes, Kiddo, made it to hell all on your own."

Sam's eyes burn with tears but none fall, he doesn't even think it's possible to cry in hell. He hasn't yet.

Nix puts a bracing hand on Sam's chest and drags the sharp edge right down his sternum. Sam wriggles, unconsciously trying to get away from the red hot feeling in his chest. All it does is dig the razor deeper; Sam can feel it hit bone. Nix pulls away and Sam's chest heaves as pain explodes over his torso.

Nix shrugs, "Doesn't matter how you got here though, does it? What matters is that you're never getting out. Not unless you say yes."

A dark grin spreads over Nix's face, "Just say yes, Sam. You'll get out of the pit, be able to see big brother again."

Nix places the razor in the groove under Sam's eye. His throat bobs with terror as he realizes what's about to happen.

"I bet that Dean will even forgive you if you get topside again, for all the things you did with Ruby, for springing Lucifer. He'll be so happy to see you he won't even care. All you have to do is say yes."

He wants to. God, he wants to. He wants to see Dean, wants the chance to fix everything, to kill Lucifer, to save the world. He wants out of hell. But he won't do that to himself, won't do that to Dean. They're in this together and as long as Dean keeps saying "no," then so will Sam.

"Go screw yourself."

The razor moves and Sam screams, but he still says no. He's always going to say no.

-0-

Sam wakes just before the razor can dig too close to his eye. The room's too dark and too hot, and he can still smell the sulfur, can still hear the screaming and the metallic sounds of razors and nails. Sweat coats him as if he had just stepped outside into a misting rain. He twists on the bed, pulling at the restraining clothes, feeling his heart pound as the darkness closes in. He can practically feel the splintered wood underneath him, rubbing his skin raw as he struggles under Nix's razorblade. He can feel it like Nix is right _there_ and he just needs to get away.

Sam rolls, tumbles from the bed and then scrambles to the bathroom. He falls against the bathroom door, slamming it shut. Even with the bright florescent light he can still smell it, all the blood and the heat, the sulfur. Nix's voice echoes around him, saying that he deserves to be in hell for all he did, that it was his destiny to be in the dark with the demons. Sam wrenches his tee shirt over his head so hard that his shoulders hurt, and then he yanks off his sweat pants, and hurdles them both into the bath tub. Even with nothing on but his boxers, he still feels too constricted, too hot, and the stench of hell is still clinging to him. Without a second thought, Sam turns on the shower, making sure the temperature is ice cold. He steps into the spray, jumps when the extreme cold hits his hot skin, but he stays there, trying to erase hell from his skin.

But no amount of motel soap and scrubbing is making the smell fade. He can smell it in his pores, saturating his hair. Sulfur, smoke, and blood.

That's when he spots Dean's electric razor.

-0-

"Son of a bitch!" Dean growls as he tugs on the door knob, "Can't believe this shit. Of all the times to forget the damn room key…"

Dean shuffles back, preparing to kick in the door, not even caring about the possible cops or the extra money involved in doing so. He just cares about the fact that Sam's locked inside and he's outside.

Before his foot can make contact, Castiel grabs his shoulder, and the next thing he knows, they're in the motel room.

"Thanks," Dean breathes as he stares wide eyed at Sam's empty bed. His gaze immediately goes to the bathroom, and he relaxes a fraction when he sees the light on under the door. Then he frowns as he hears the tell tale buzz of his razor.

"Sam?" Dean asks as he steps up to the door, knocking on it, "Sam, you ok in there?"

Besides the buzzing, there's silence.

"I swear to God I will bust down this door if you don't answer me. Sam!" Dean barks, feeling unease creep into his gut.

His hand grips the knob, surprised to find it unlocked. With a deep inhale, Dean pushes the door open slowly, giving Sam a chance to react. He finds no resistance, and when the room comes into complete view, Dean freezes.

"Sammy..."


	10. Remaining Pieces

Warnings: Language, angst, and more bro mos.

* * *

_It's ok to feel lost_  
_It just means you're alive._  
_I tell myself a thousand times_  
_From the ashes we will rise._

_Senses Fail – The Fire_

_

* * *

_**Chapter 10**_  
_

It's like time's frozen when he steps into the bathroom. The razor is still in Sam's hand, hanging from his finger tips, buzzing away. Sam's slouched on the edge of the bathtub wearing nothing but soaking wet boxers. Water is still dripping off his skin, making puddles on the floor as Sam shivers. That isn't what really has Dean frozen in the doorway, though. It's the scattered piles of dark brown hair on the floor, sticking to the wet tiles. It's the uneven buzz cut that his brother has given himself.

Dean swallows, feeling his heart race in his chest and his eyes burn. Sam's never cut his hair. It was the one fight that Sam always won with their dad. He'd allow it to be trimmed but the only way he'd let it be buzzed off was if you took his head with it. Sam's hair has always been long and seeing it now, all patchy and a stark symbol of Sam's desolation, Dean feels like crying.

He walks forward slowly, stopping when he's in front of Sam and the bathtub. He reaches over to the nearest towel rack and pulls a mint green towel from the top of the stack. He drapes the itchy terrycloth over Sam's shoulders. Sam doesn't even flinch. Slowly, Dean lowers himself into a crouch in front of Sam. He glances at the electric razor in Sam's hand then back to Sam's face, trying to get a glimpse of what's going on in Sam's head. His little brother's expression is disturbingly blank. Dean reaches up, still moving slow and easy, and takes the buzzing razor from Sam's giant hands. Sam gives it up without a fight and Dean switches it off. The bathroom is immediately plunged into a heavy silence; Dan can feel the thickness of it in his chest. He stares at Sam for a moment longer before shifting his weight, and sits fully on the floor. Cold water soaks into his jeans and his boots slip on the remains of Sam's hair.

He doesn't know how long they sit like that, with Sam shivering on the edge of the bathtub and Dean tucked between the sink and the tub, just waiting. His jeans are growing increasingly wet and cold, but he doesn't move an inch. He just waits for Sam to talk, for him to be ready. He knows from experience that when it comes to hell, it doesn't help if someone pokes and prods, that just makes it worse. When it comes to hell, you need to talk on your own terms. Patience is not one of Dean's virtues, especially when it comes to Sam and Sam being hurt, but this, this he's willing to wait for.

Sam doesn't let him down.

"I couldn't get the smell out," Sam says, his voice going straight to the floor, "I tried showering, but it just wouldn't come off. It's gone now."

Dean nods. He remembers those first few weeks back from hell. The mind plays tricks. It makes you think that too-hot motel rooms are cages made of bone and flesh, and that dark corners are hiding something sinister. You believe that at any moment you're going to wake up and be right back under the hands of your tormentors. The first few days are the worst. Your senses are all messed up and everything's a trigger; it took everything Dean had not to curl up and hide somewhere when hell hit him full tilt when he returned.

"You, uh…you want to talk about it?" Dean asks, watching as Sam's shoulder tense and then vibrate as he relaxes them. Then he hesitates before shrugging.

Dean nods again. He gets that too, more than anyone. And now he also gets why it pissed Sam off so much when he refused to talk about hell. Dean's never felt more helpless or frustrated. He knows that if Sam will let him, he can help him through this. He also knows there's no way to force this issue. Not this time.

"You remember that Chuck Norris movie we watched when we were kids? The one that's like the Karate Kid only really lame?" Sam asks. He's still not looking up, still keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the ground as he lethargically asks the question.

"Yeah," Dean replies, wondering where Sam's going with this.

"Remember that dream the kid has? Where he's chained down to that table and the guy's pulling the chains tighter and tighter, just crushing his chest?"

Oh. That's where he's going with this.

"Sam…"

"That's what it's like, being in hell. Strapped to this dirty wooden table and it's hotter than…" Sam stops to laugh shortly, hysterically, "It's hotter than hell. And you've got this, this _psycho_ monologuing to you all the time, and it hurts, and you just want it to stop. But it doesn't. And you can't make it stop unless…"

Dean swallows, staring at Sam with wide eyes. He doesn't know what to say; he doesn't even think there really is anything to say. He knows what it feels like to be that helpless, to have all of your pride, dignity, and humanity stripped away. It's degrading and it's agonizing. There really are no words.

"God, I'm so sorry, Dean."

That was something Dean wasn't expecting.

"For what?"

"Everything," Sam says and shakes his head. The action looks weird without his hair moving in his eyes or getting even more messed up. Dean feels a sharp pang at the absence of the brown strands.

"Yeah," Dean finally says, "I know."

"No, you don't." The certainty and passion behind the steady statement catches Dean off guard, and he realizes, he really doesn't know what's going on with Sam right now. If he's being honest with himself, he hasn't known what's been going on with Sam for a long time now.

"I know what you're doing," Sam continues with a small, rueful smile. It disappears quickly but not before it spurs a deep seed of dread to settle in Dean's gut.

"What am I doing?"

"I know you're still mad at me. Furious, probably. Me dying didn't change that," Sam says, "Did it?" That smile is back on his face, the twisted, not-really-there smile that makes Dean want to kill Tim all over again.

"I don't know, Sammy." And he doesn't know. Right now? No, he's not mad. He's scared and worried and he can still feel the need to rip Tim limb from limb barely humming under his skin. He wonders if the need to get revenge for Sam's murder – even though Sam's alive now –will ever fade. He doesn't think something like that ever fades. Before he found out that Sam was dead, he was still pissed. Zachariah opened his eyes and made him see that he made the wrong choice, but he still felt deeply betrayed by his brother's choices. Hurt. But now…now he doesn't know if any of it matters. It's a mental wound that will probably never heal right; the knowledge that Sam was so far gone in grief and revenge that he chose a demon over his brother, but maybe now, it doesn't matter.

"When I was down there, Nix kept telling me that if I said yes, I'd come back here and you wouldn't be mad anymore. You'd be so happy that I was alive that you would've even care about everything I did," Sam locks his gaze on to Dean's for the first time since Dean entered the bathroom, "He was right, wasn't he?"

Dean doesn't know what to say. He could deny it, and he probably should, but Sam's smarter than that. But if he says that Nix was right about this, will Sam believe that Nix was right about whatever else he happened to say to Sam?

"I'm sure he said that you deserved to be there too, right?" Dean demands tightly, "Does that mean he was right about that?"

Sam looks away and Dean narrows his eyes in warning, "You didn't – hey, look at me."

Dean waits until Sam turns his attention back to his big brother, "Whatever Tim told you, whatever Nix told you, they were wrong. No one on earth is going to be more pissed at you over this than me, and _I'm_ telling you, you didn't deserve what happened."

Sam looks down but nods briefly. Dean can tell that he's not fully convinced but that will probably only come with time. Dean sees a particularly strong shiver run through Sam and it spurs him into action.

"C'mon, Sasquatch. How about you get dressed before you turn into a Yeti," Dean says as he stands, brushing off Sam's hair that has stuck to his wet jeans, "We'll fix your hair tomorrow."

Sam sits there for a moment longer before standing too, and he curls the towel on his shoulders closer to his neck, "Sasquatch and Yeti are the same thing."

Dean scoffs, "No they're not. Everyone knows that Yeti lives in the snow and Sasquatch lives in the woods."

"They're the same species, just in different locations."

"Whatever, Encyclopedia Weird, just get dressed."


	11. Absolution Part 1

A/N: Sorry I couldn't reply to you all individually this time but I appreciate the feedback more than I can say. I hope everyone had a good holiday!

Warnings: Language that's harsher than usual, **horror-esque things, violence, more hell PTSD (which may be more intense than the last episode of hell PTSD)**, and angst. What I'm trying to say here is, I'm really, really mean to both Sam and Dean in this chapter, but I make up for it in the end (of the next chapter *is evil*).

* * *

"_Into the flood again,  
Same old trip it was back then.  
So I made a big mistake,  
try to see it once my way."_  
-Alice in Chains, _Would?_

_

* * *

_

**Chapter 11a**

"Are we going to talk about it?"

Sam blames the question on the beer. Actually, he probably blurted it out because of Bobby's whiskey, which they've already polished off. The beer was just an afterthought. To be fair, they have plenty of reasons to be laying on the junker in the salvage yard, getting wasted while staring at the stars. Things like nightmares of hell, nerves that would rival a paranoid junkie's, and the apocalypse. Sam hopes the hangover is worth facing Bobby's wrath after the man finds out they drank the last of his whiskey.

"Talk about what?"

They showed up at Bobby's yesterday morning, two days after Dean found Sam in the bathroom with a newly shaved head. To Sam's surprise, Bobby had a few choice words for Dean when he opened the door. Dean seemed to be expecting it and didn't offer much of a defense against the other man. Sam just stared, wondering what Dean had done this time to set Bobby off. After a slew of cuss words and multiple threats of violence, Bobby let them in with a final word of "idjits." Dean spent the day fixing up things around the house, pretending that he wasn't watching Sam's every move. Sam spent the day researching the apocalypse.

"About me being Lucifer's vessel."

Dean sighs and takes a long pull from his beer bottle, "Nothing to talk about."

"You're kidding, right?"

Dean shrugs, "Not really."

"So you're perfectly alright with this? Not bothered at all?" Sam's having a hard time wrapping his head around Dean's nonchalance. When Lucifer wriggled his way into Sam's brain to personally deliver the message, he was terrified. Never mind the self-loathing, the disgust, and the horror that came with knowing that _he_ is the sole vessel of Lucifer, Sam's freaking _scared_. It worries him that Dean isn't too.

"Course it bothers me," Dean replies with a snort, "But it's not like you're going to do something stupid like let Lucifer lead you by the nose, right Sammy?" he finishes the sentence with another drink of beer.

Sam blinks, wondering if there is real sarcasm and barb in the response or if the whiskey is messing with his head. Maybe it's a bit of both.

"…Is there something you need to say to me?" Sam asks.

"Nothin' I haven't already said."

Alright, Sam knows that he didn't imagine Dean's hostility that time. He shakes his head.

"You're still pissed so obviously you didn't say it well enough. C'mon, Dean, let me have it. If it'll make you feel better, tell me how much I screwed up so we can move the fuck _on_."

That was definitely the whiskey talking. No way would he normally bait his drunken older brother, especially with something so sensitive and fragile. He's been waiting for Dean to bring up old feelings, but this is bordering on kamikaze. Maybe deep down he still wants Dean to punish him for what he did. Hell and Tim punished him for the apocalypse, but who's punished him for hurting the people he cares about?

Sam's really starting to regret taking freshmen psych.

Dean finishes off his beer, tipping his head and the bottle all the way back before he chucks it into the abyss of the salvage yard. Sam hears it smash in the distance. Dean slides off the hood of the 67' Chevy truck they are lounging on and staggers a bit as he gains his footing. Sam stays on the hood but he sits up.

Dean regards him for a moment. It's dark in the salvage yard; the only light sources are some dim lights from the house yards away, and the stars. Sam doesn't need the light to know that Dean's pissed. He's seen the narrowed eyes and tense jaw enough to know that right now, Dean's contemplating either hitting him or cutting him down with words. Sam's prepared for either.

That's why he's so surprised when Dean simply shakes his head and says, "Forget it. S'not worth it." The he starts to make his way back to the house.

Sam gapes for a moment and then he hops off the truck hood, and starts to follow his brother. When he catches up, he grabs Dean's shoulder and hauls him back around so that they're face to face. The move makes them both sway drunkenly and Dean glares.

"No. You started this so finish it." Sam just wants it out in the open. He doesn't know about Dean but he doesn't have the energy to walk on eggshells. He_ knows _that underneath Dean's gratefulness for Sam being alive there's a mountain of resentment and anger lying there, waiting to erupt. Sam would rather they just get it out of the way.

"You really want to re-hash all this?" Dean demands, "You really wanna go there?"

Not really, no, Sam thinks but instead he says, "Do you? You're obviously still pissed..."

"No shit, Sam!" Dean explodes, "You sucked down demon blood, lied to me for a whole year, damn near choked me to death, and let Lucifer outta his box! And you did all of this _after _I fucking told you that you were wrong! Damn right I'm still pissed!"

There it was. Dean looks a little surprised, as if he isn't sure where the words came from. Sam feels calm, if not a little stung, because he's known from the get-go that _this_ is what's been right under the surface.

"Finished?" Sam asks evenly.

Dean snarls and for a second, Sam thinks that Dean is most definitely not finished, but Dean just growls, "Screw you, Sam," and stomps back to Bobby's house. Sam can hear the door slam from his spot in the salvage yard.

Sam sighs, grabs another beer out of the cooler they brought out earlier, and slides to the ground. It's gonna be a long night.

**Dean. **

Dean's not sure what happened. One moment, they're relaxing on the 67' Chevy enjoying the lull of the alcohol, and the next he's screaming at Sam. He barely remembers getting from point A to point B; he blames it on Bobby's whiskey.

He sighs as he paces the guest room, dragging a hand over his face. Sam does this on purpose, there's no other explanation. The persistent, selfish bastard knows what buttons to push; only he doesn't push them, he bangs on them like a two year old.

'_Let's talk about it, Dean.'_

'_Tell me what you're feeling, Dean.'_

'_You started it, Dean.'_

Shut up, Sam.  
Shut up.  
Shut up.  
SHUT UP!

Dean kicks his duffle bag and then gets irritated when the action does little to calm his anger, or Sam's voice in his head. He didn't want to fight and he definitely didn't want to bring up all the shit that Dean was sure was behind them, but Sam just had to _push_. Like always.

These past few days all Dean's been concerned about is Sam: whether or not Sam's sleeping, if he's eating, if he's ok, or if he's going to have another break down. He just wants his little brother to be ok. The only time Dean even thought about what happened pre-Tim, was when Sam asked – more like stated, really – that Dean still had to be pissed about the Ruby thing. That was close to three days ago.

He doesn't really know where his earlier words came from. Maybe it was Sam's persistence. Maybe it was the Jim Beam. Or maybe Sam was right all along and he is still pissed, and he just pushed it aside in the aftermath of fear, revenge, and relief. But he thought that after Zachariah's mind fuck and Sam's murder that he'd gotten over all of the other stuff. When Sam was dead, Dean wanted nothing more than to have one more moment with him. He just needed one more moment to tell Sam how sorry he was and to tell him how much he still cared about him. Could his feelings have changed so quickly? Was he really that pissed at his brother that it all could come rushing back now that Sam's safe and sound? Does it even matter anymore?

Dean sighs and rubs his hands over his face again, harder, like he can scrub away the thoughts and feelings in his head.

"I'm too drunk for this shit," Dean mutters out loud, ripping his shirt over his head, preparing to collapse on the bed and fall into a drunken oblivion.

-0-

_He's at the warehouse again. The air is metallic with blood and heavy with decay; Dean gags as the combined smells hit the back of his throat. In the center of the over-sized room, there's a singular chair resting in an impossibly large puddle of blood. Dean recognizes the chair as the one that he'd tied Tim to._

_Suddenly, Sam's sitting in the chair. His image flickers like a spirit's before it solidifies. Sam looks unharmed but his arms are tied behind him, and there's unmistakable fear in his eyes._

_"Sam?" Dean says. Panic thrums through him along with desperation. He can't let Sam get hurt like this again. Dean moves forward; he has every intention of untying his brother and getting the hell out._

_A second presence stops him. Tim is standing behind Sam, lead pipe in hand. Only, Tim doesn't look like Sam does, whole and human, he looks like a zombie. Dean can see all of the lacerations that he carved into Tim's body, along with the dark bruises that he put there. He can even see the rope burn around the hunter's neck._

_Dean stares in horror as Tim starts to circle around the chair that Sam's bound to, and staggers from his broken and bruised knees. Tim's eyes are all white and cloudy, there's no trace of humanity or soul left in them at all._

_"Isn't this what you wanted, Dean?" Tim rasps through his crushed throat, "He's a monster. A thing."_

_Tim swings the pipe in a perfect vertical arc, catching Sam under the chin. Sam's head snaps back cruelly with a loud crack. Sam cries out and scrunches his face in pain, trying to control the agony that's surely throbbing in his skull. Dean doesn't know if the hit broke Sam's jaw or not._

_After flinching from the sudden assault on his brother, Dean snarls, "You bastard. I'm gonna…"_

_"Kill me?" Tim finishes smartly with a smirk. He spreads his arms, revealing decomposition, "Don't you think you did a good enough job the first time?"_

_"Dean…" Sam groans through clenched teeth. He rolls his head until he's hunched over in the chair, his hair covering his face._

_Dean starts forward again, intending on taking Tim out and relieving Sam's distress, but he finds he can't move. Confused, he looks down and sees that he's secured to his own chair; ropes are wrapped tightly around his arms and torso. Dean frowns and starts to struggle._

_"Not so great, is it? To be on the receiving end."_

_Dean starts and then gags as the putrid stench of Tim's crumbling body fills his nostrils. Tim is standing right in front of him and getting closer by the second. Dean eyes the pipe in the hunter's hand._

_"You gonna hit me too, Timmy?" Dean's bravado does little to cover up his fear._

_"No," Tim's hoarse voice replies. He's right in Dean's face and he leans closer, almost pressing his dry mouth to Dean's ear, "I'm just gonna make you watch."_

_Then Tim's next to Sam again, like he never moved at all. Dean pulls and twists but the ropes around him don't give. Tim smiles; the twist of his lips is sinister and reveals blood stained teeth. Then he starts beating Sam with the pipe, and he doesn't stop until Sam doesn't have enough oxygen to scream any more. And then, Tim wraps a rope around Sam's neck and pulls._

_Dean threatens, yells, struggles, and cries, but Sam still dies. Afterwards, Tim collapses to the ground in a pile of rotting flesh and bone. Dean's left in the chair, unable to do anything but stare at the corpses._

**Sam.**

Sam drinks until all of the beer in the cooler is gone, and then he stumbles to the couch in Bobby's living room. It's late, around three in the morning, and Bobby's house is silent. Sam lies on the sofa with one foot on the floor, staring at the hazy ceiling. He pushed Dean to remember how messed up they are and how badly Sam screwed up, but he doesn't regret it. It felt wrong letting Dean take care of him and fuss over him like a mother hen, when Sam knows he doesn't deserve Dean's concern. Besides, the sooner they both face reality, the sooner they can fix this mess he's created with Lucifer.

For the first time in days, Sam falls asleep not thinking about hell, but about Lucifer and what's to come.

-0-

_"We have eternity here, Sam," Nix's voice flows over Sam like an unwanted caress, "But I'm losing my patience with you."_

_The warning in the comment does not go unheard, and Sam shudders under the chains that are strapping him to the rack. The chains are hot; Sam's skin turns red and blisters underneath them. He stopped feeling it some time ago._

_"Patience is a virtue," Sam says with a small, sardonic smile._

_Nix hums with fake amusement, "Irony, cute. Have I told you lately how alike all you Winchesters are?"_

_The demon ends the rhetorical question with the swing of a hammer, which he brings down on Sam's arm. The limb snaps cleanly and Sam howls. One of Nix's favorite things to do is compare the screams of all the Winchester men. Nix hums again but this time, it's with approval._

_Sam's chest heaves in agony and he purposefully avoids looking at his mangled right arm. It's not the most painful thing that Nix has doled out but broken limbs are no walk in the park. Sam remembers that from life._

_Nix snaps his fingers in front of Sam's face, "Don't check out on me yet, kiddo. We're just getting started." Sam flinches away from Nix's hands, and the demon chuckles._

_There's something new in Nix's hand, something that Sam has become too familiar with. Against his will, he tries to struggle under the chains, which only sends shooting pain through his broken arm. The pain is almost unnoticed against the fear that has consumed him. It takes all of his will not to beg, to plead for anything but what Nix has planned._

_Nix knows it, too. Sam can tell from the perverse, satisfied smile on his face._

_"Say yes, Sam."_

_He wants to. God help him, he wants to. In this moment, staring at the beaker of acid in Nix's hands, Sam wants nothing more than to give in._

_But he doesn't. He presses his lips together in an attempt to keep them from quivering, and rolls his head back and forth against the rack. 'No.'_

_Nix shakes his head in mock disappointment, smile still plastered on his face, as he starts to pour._

Sam wakes up screaming.

Bobby's living room is flooded with pink light as the first signs of morning make themselves present. Sam's on the hardwood floor, having apparently thrashed enough in his sleep to push himself off the sofa. His chest is still heaving with residual fear and panic. He remembers that particular moment in hell clearly. It was one of the only times where he felt his resolve weaken, where he considered saying "yes" just to stop the pain.

Sam snorts in disgust. His father lasted one hundred years without breaking. His brother last thirty. Sam was in hell one week and he wanted to say yes. Pathetic.

He sits up on the floor fully and puts his head in his hands. His head is throbbing but Sam's unsure if it's from the nightmare –memory? – or from the hangover. Maybe it's both. His forehead is tacky with cold sweat and he feels hot, but he finds that he can't be bothered.

Sam's just worried about the voice in his head, whispering, pressing.

"Say yes, Sam."

"Give in."

"Say yes, and it'll all be over."

"Dean will forgive you, Sam."

Sam presses his palms into his closed eyes, "Not real," he mutters, "You're not real anymore."

But he knows it'll always be real. As long as Lucifer is still on earth and not back in his box where he belongs, it'll always be real.

Before he ever realizes what he's doing, Sam's half stumbling, half crawling to the basement and bolting himself in the panic room. Maybe down there the voices won't be as loud.

* * *

A/N: Part two with the rest of Dean's POV will be in the next (and final) chapter. Bobby's going to make an appearance as well.

Everyone may not agree, but I felt it was too unrealistic for Dean to dismiss all of the cannon issues. I agonized over this chapter and whether or not they should have the fight, and finally I decided that I couldn't ignore it. I tried to tie it in with the rest of the story as best as possible.


	12. Absolution Part 2

A/N: Here we are at the end. It's been one helluva journey. In many ways, this has been one of the most difficult things I've ever written. It was a constant challenge to keep Sam and Dean in character, and to make the psychology and AU aspects as believable as possible. I love and appreciate you all for supporting me, for inspiring me, and for the feedback. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

And a special thanks to _Scribble2Much_, who was awesome enough to listen to me rant about this chapter, and to bounce ideas with me.

* * *

**.Chapter 11b.**

"_I don't hate you, boy,  
I just want to save you  
While there's still something left to save."_

_-Rise Against, Savior_

_

* * *

_

"Dean, wake up! Dean!"

Dean gasps and then starts as he comes face to face with Bobby's worried expression, "Jesus, Bobby, personal space."

"Wouldn't need to be in here if you weren't yellin' the house down. Thought something got in," Bobby replies as he wheels back, putting space between himself and Dean's bed.

Dean colors, even though his heart is still pounding. "Sorry. Just…weird dream."

"Uh huh," Bobby says with a look that clearly expresses that he thinks 'weird' is an understatement, "Well, find your brother. Grub'll be up soon."

Dean's head snaps over to the other bed where Sam should be. It's empty, hasn't even been slept in.

"You haven't seen Sam? What time is it?" Dean's already pushing the blankets out of his way, scrambling to get out of bed. He stands and his head rings, the familiar effect of an alcohol binge.

"Gettin' close to nine," Bobby says with a frown, "Figured he was sleeping it off in here."

Dean pulls on a shirt, "He wasn't on the couch?"

"If he was do you think I'd be in here telling you to find him?" Bobby deadpans.

Dean rolls his eyes and leaves the room, yelling for Sam as he does so. He pauses in the hallways and listens for footsteps or an answer. All he hears is the hum of the water heater.

"Damnit," Dean growls as he continues on, doing a quick in and out sweep of the house. He's not sure why he's all that concerned with Sam's whereabouts, to be honest. After the fight last night he's not exactly itching to see him, and Sam's more than capable of being on his own for a while. But something he can't explain is making him feel weird about it, making him feel uncomfortable like a shirt that fits a little too tightly.

Dean walks out to the truck that they had been lounging on the night before. The cooler's still there, empty and sitting by the passenger side tire. So Sammy finished off the beer and went…where? Dean turns round and looks out at the salvage yard with a hand over his mouth. Impala, maybe? He starts heading in that direction.

Dean's not gonna panic. Just because Sam's M.I.A. doesn't mean something's happened to him. Bobby's place is locked down like a supernatural Fort Knox, and there would've been signs: a struggle, sulfur, blood, something. Sammy's fine, probably just brooding somewhere about the fight last night.

Dean keeps telling himself this even though he looks in the Impala and Sam's not there.

There's only one place left to check and Dean can't imagine why Sam would go there. He takes off again for the house, near jogging in his haste to get to the basement. He runs down the steps and wrenches open the peep hole to the panic room door. Then he lets out a breath, relieved. Sam's lying on the cot inside, back to the panic room door. As quietly as he can, Dean opens the door and steps inside. Sam doesn't stir but Dean frowns, seeing shivers rattle his brother every so often. He turns, leaves the panic room, and grabs a spare blanket from the storage cabinet by the stairs. After covering Sam with it, Dean sits on the floor with his back leaning against the wall, facing the cot.

From under the blanket, Dean can only see Sam's newly shaved head and the tips of his toes. His gaze lingers on the buzz cut. If Lucifer hadn't brought Sam back with a clean slate – no bruises, cuts, or welts – then the outline of the noose would've been perfectly visible without Sam's hair to cover it. Not that it really matters. Dean can see the bruises perfectly; they're branded into his memory. And if he had forgotten during the day, the constant nightmares are sure to remind him.

Dean's lips tighten as he thinks of the images that have been plaguing him the past week or so. Sam is the notorious one for nightmares in the family, but when the occasion calls for it, Dean can give him a run for his money. They're different every night and yet not. Sam always dies, but sometimes it's not in the way Tim killed him. Sometimes it's Sam in hell, sometimes it's Lucifer, and once, it was even Dean himself who snuffed out his brother's life in dream land. That one had required whiskey upon waking. He expects they'll go away eventually, just like the ones from Cold Oak did and like the memories from hell did, but he also expects that it's going to take a helluva long time. And really, if Dean's struggling with this, then he can only imagine what Sam's going through.

Dean frowns as he goes back to studying Sam's sleeping form. He can't really blame his brother for seeking refuge in the panic room. Even though the room holds terrible memories for both of them, it's still probably the safest damn room in the world when it comes to protection from the supernatural. If Dean were still having nightmares about hell, he'd probably attempt to block them out by encasing himself in salt and iron, too. Even though he understands why Sam's sleeping down here, it still doesn't sit well with him. He hates that Sam's suffering enough to come down here. He may still be mad at Sam over Ruby and that whole mess, but the last thing he wants is for Sam to keep suffering because of hell. God knows if he could, Dean'd go back in time and change it all. He wouldn't separate from Sam. He'd find Tim and kick his ass so hard that he wouldn't even think the word "Winchester" without feeling pain. He'd keep Sam out of hell. But since he can't do any of that, the best thing he can do is help his brother.

Dean breathes hard out of his nose, his resolve steeling. He doubts Sam will talk about what happened to him in hell, and that's fine. But Dean can't just sit back and let his brother handle things himself when Sam's obviously in pain, especially with something like this. No one on earth is going to understand what Sam's going through more than Dean, so even though he's not going to push, he is going to do something,_ anything_, to give Sam some peace. Even if it brings up the things Dean's tried to bury.

That is, if Sam even lets him, because after last night, Dean's not so sure.

He's still not sure how he feels about the fight last night, or if it even counts, considering they were both wasted. To be honest, he's not sure he cares either way. What he realized with crystal clarity when Sam died is that it's arrogant to take things for granted. He's hurt, monumentally so, by the choices Sam made with Ruby. He's pissed at both his brother and himself for letting things get the way they are, and he has no clue what they're going to do about the shit storm they're heading into that's called the apocalypse. But maybe it all doesn't matter. Maybe what matters is that he tries to forgive Sam, that they work on healing each other, that they try to figure things out _together_. Because he may still be pissed but he isn't going to take time with Sam for granted again, and waste it fighting with and hurting each other. Not again.

At that moment, Sam makes a noise that Dean has long recognized as Sam's 'waking up' noise. Dean sits up a bit straighter as Sam rolls over, winces as the bars of the cot dig into him, and then blinks awake. His gaze immediately settles on Dean.

"What're you doing down here?" Sam voice is full of sleep, but the confusion is still evident.

"Could ask you the same thing."

Dean sees Sam shrug under the blanket but he doesn't say anything. Dean recognizes it for what it is, because he's the master at it: avoidance. Sam doesn't want to tell him why he's bunked up in the panic room, and normally, Dean would be ok with that. This isn't normally.

Dean sighs, "I think we should talk."

"Never thought I'd hear you say that," Sam says.

"You're hilarious. I'm serious, Sam."

Sam presses his lips together, "About what?"

"Everything."

"Oh, is that all?"

Dean ignores Sam's sarcasm. He's familiar enough with defense mechanisms to know one when it's thrown in his face. Hell, sarcasm's one of his favorites too.

"Why are you down here, Sammy?" Dean asks again.

Sam smiles a bit, it's small and cynical, and he turns over on his back, staring at the fan in the ceiling, "You're not going to want to hear about it."

Normally, this would be where Dean would shrug, say "ok," and then buy Sam his favorite lunch or something just to remind the kid that he's here. But he knows that something like that isn't going to work this time. It's going to take a lot more than a few lunches to dig themselves outta the mess they've buried themselves in.

Dean closes his eyes, telling himself that it's now or never. "When I got to hell, the first thing I did was yell for you." The sentence comes out steady despite how shaky Dean feels. He sees Sam tenses up. "I knew there was no way you could hear me, but…it was just habit, you know?" Dean laughs but it doesn't hold humor, "It just made it worse because I knew you weren't coming."

"Dean, stop." Sam sounds close to tears.

"And I was scared, man. So damned scared. You have no idea what's coming when you're hanging on those chains, but you know that if it's anything close to what you're feeling right then, that you don't want to survive it. But you don't have a choice. That's what hell is." Dean pauses and looks at Sam, who has tear streaks running down his face. "And they don't let you cry because crying makes the mind feel better, and that's not allowed in hell. The only thing you're allowed to do is scream and most of the time, you don't even have the air to do that much."

"Why are you telling me this?" Sam finally asks and breathes harshly, as if he's trying to get himself back under control.

Dean swallows, feeling his own tears burn the back of his throat, "Cause I wish someone would've been able to tell me when I got outta the pit. It gets better, Sammy. I promise. Not right away but eventually, you stop hearing screams and…which ever demon was assigned to you. You stop hearing them."

Sam scrubs his face with the back of his wrist like a toddler and keeps his eyes on the ceiling.

"Hey, look at me," Dean says and reaches out to tug lightly on Sam's shirt sleeve. He waits patiently while Sam turns his head, his hazel eyes bright with tears and red-rimmed.

"It's gonna be ok. Me n' you? We're gonna be ok."

Sam doesn't look like he's totally on Dean's page, but the haunted undertone that's been in Sam's gaze the past four days or so is lighter, and that's all Dean can really ask for at this point.

"You do remember last night, right?" Sam asks, sounding both hesitant and vaguely amused.

Dean half smiles, "I wasn't that drunk, Sam."

Sam just blinks. Dean rubs his hand over his face and sighs, "Yeah. I remember."

"I was right all along, wasn't I?" Sam says softly, "You never stopped hating me for what I did."

"Hey!" Dean immediately barks and then softens his tone when he sees Sam flinch, "I don't hate you; I never did. I couldn't even if I tried. You think I'd kill other hunters for you if I hated you? C'mon, Sam."

"But…"

"I just need some time here, Sam. Ok? Just…give me some time to work through it all."

Sam stares for a moment before answering quietly, "Yeah. Ok."

Dean nods and lets out a breath he barely realized he'd been holding, and cracks a small, relieved smile, "Ok. Good."

Sam nods and turns his head back towards the ceiling. Dean frowns, "You alright?"

Dean sees Sam swallow, and it takes him a little longer than Dean would like for him to answer but eventually Sam smiles and says, "Yeah, I'm alright."

* * *

A/N: I tried to wrap things up as best as possible, but it's hard to catch all the loose ends. I hope it was satisfactory. I may do a sequel or a coda later on down the road, but it'll probably be after I finish _Brutality_ and _Hell Walker_ (which hasn't gotten any love in a long time, sorry about that, guys.) Also, I posted a deleted scene and put it up as chapter 12. I just really liked it, so I decided to share it with you all.


	13. Deleted Scene

A/N: This is an extension of Dean's dream from chapter 11A. Originally, the dream was going to be a huge metaphor and Dean was going to have an epic epiphany, but it was just too complicated. I'll explain it all at the end.

* * *

_"You gonna hit me too, Timmy?" Dean's bravado does little to cover up his fear._

_"No," Tim's hoarse voice replies. He's right in Dean's face and he leans closer, almost pressing his dry mouth to Dean's ear, "I'm just gonna make you watch."_

_Then Tim's next to Sam again, like he never moved at all. Dean pulls and twists but the ropes around him don't give. Tim smiles; the twist of his lips is sinister and reveals blood stained teeth. Then he starts beating Sam with the pipe, and he doesn't stop until Sam doesn't have enough oxygen to scream any more. And then, Tim wraps a rope around Sam's neck and pulls._

_Dean threatens, yells, struggles, and cries, but Sam still dies. Afterwards, Tim collapses to the ground in a pile of rotting flesh and bone. Dean's left in the chair, unable to do anything but stare at the corpses._

Sam's skin is still pink with life; blood is still dripping and running from various lacerations and breaks in his flesh. Dean stares at the rope coiled around his brother's neck with blurry eyes, and feels the overwhelming urge to just get it _off_.

He leans forward and pulls at his own ropes with a grunt, which soon escalates into a frustrated yell when the knots refuse to give. He pulls, tugs, and twists until he's sweating and panting, but he's still trapped. Worn out, Dean lets his restraints hold his weight as he hangs his head.

Footsteps have him back on red alert in two seconds flat. His head snaps up, senses narrowing in on the sound like an animal. He doesn't have to look far for the source. Walking up behind Sam's slack body is…himself. The Dean coming up behind Sam is covered in blood, and holding the pipe that Tim used to beat Sam. Dean – the real Dean – recognizes his doppelganger as a mirror image of how he looked after he killed the hunters; soaked in blood and still feeling like Alastair's best student. Dean stares warily as his alter ego comes to a halt next to Sam. Bloody Dean smirks as he props himself up on the chair, right behind Sam's head, "I can start over, if you want."

"What?"

The smirk on Bloody Dean's face twists into something darker, and he leans in closer to Sam, "C'mon, Dean-o. We've been here before: we rip em' apart and they make themselves whole again. The fun never ends."

"Get the hell away from my brother," Dean replies fiercely, "It isn't like that."

"It isn't?" Bloody Dean retorts with a twirl of the pipe, "It'd be so easy. We could keep him here locked up, just reliving this over, and over, and over. God knows he deserves it."

"Shut the hell up!" Dean yells so hard that saliva flies from his mouth, "Not Sam, not _ever_ Sam. He doesn't deserve this!"

"Then why are we here?"

Dean blinks, taken back by the seriousness of the question, "What?"

"Why. Are. We. Here, Dean?" The question is patronizing, methodical, as if it were being directed towards a child.

Dean glares, "You tell me. See, I've been down this rabbit hole before. The whole "I'm you and you're me" thing wrapped up in one terrible metaphor for being my own worst enemy is getting pretty old."

"That's funny, cause it still rings just as true as it did when you were a hell hound chew toy, doesn't it? Except now, it's not daddy issues so much as it is that dark pit inside you. See cause deep down you know that you're nothing but a murderer; a torturer. A real Berkowitz. Had to keep the demons quiet, right?"

"You don't know what you're talking about," Dean replies evenly.

"I think we both know exactly what I'm talking about." Bloody Dean grins, dark and sarcastic, "It's just one big metaphor, remember?"

"Wake up, Dean, wake up. Wake the fuck _up_," Dean mutters to himself, scrunching his eyes shut tight. When he opens them, Bloody Dean is closer.

"Alcohol's a depressant, Dean, can be a real bitch. It doesn't always drown things out." The smugness there makes Dean want to deck himself.

"So," Bloody Dean announces loudly and walks backwards until he's next to Sam again. He twirls the pipe. "Should we get this show on the road?" He reaches for Sam as if to shake him awake.

"No!" Dean shouts, panic and fear hitting his chest hard, "God, no. Don't."

Bloody Dean pauses, cocks his head, "Why are we here, Dean?"

"I don't know, God damnit, stop asking me that!" Dean yells.

Bloody Dean throws the pipe; Dean hears it clang and clatter somewhere in the room. His alter ego marches forward and get's close enough so that Dean can smell the coppery tang of blood on his doppelganger.

"Yes, you do. You know," Bloody Dean crouches down and now they're nearly nose to nose. Staring into his twin's eyes, Dean sees the same thing he saw in his future self: pure anger and a lot of loneliness, the kind that wriggles its way into your soul and doesn't let go.

Bloody Dean smirks knowingly and leans in to whisper, "Wake up, Dean."

* * *

A/N: The idea of this was Dean vs. Dean. The Dean in the chair is the Dean who doesn't want his brother hurt, and Bloody Dean is the Dean who wants to punish Sam for everything he's done. It's literally Dean's two feelings on the Ruby situation manifested. I was going to have Dean realize that the dream was trying to tell him that by not forgiving Sam, he was emotionally torturing him, and that he couldn't have it both ways. Either he forgives him or he doesn't. In the end, I felt it was too hard to get Dean to logically come to this conclusion from the dream, so I cut it.


End file.
